5:15
by messengercat
Summary: A collection of unrelated oneshots.
1. Charming Repose, Hesitant Smile

_A/N._ Allelujah's nightmares and Lockon's smile. Set before season one

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Charming Repose, Hesitant Smile**

Sometimes he slept; quiet and safe, away from it all – the death and destruction and blood on his hands. He could simply not exist in the real world and the world could be at peace, if only in his head. It was only sometimes though. Usually if he slept he dreamt, vivid dreams of the past, the possible future, of the darkness and the secrets hidden within.

'_This is what we are,_' Hallelujah would whisper in his ear, '_This is what we do – kill them and live_.'

Allelujah, however, would shake his head, '_No, there has to be another way, something- anything_-'

But the blood was already on his hands, tears in his eyes, shaking as he dropped the gun.

'_It had to be done_.' Hallelujah's cold arms wrapped tight around him, possessive, strong and unrelenting as he pulled Allelujah to his feet, pushing and dragging him along the hallways, corridors, cold steel and blood, reassuring empty words, and he was just a puppet and the blood was everywhere in the darkness – everyone's – and all he could see was his – Hallelujah's – smile in his reflection on the glass.

'_Kill them all and we live_.'

The gun in their hand – his hand – which he couldn't remember picking up again, cold, real, comforting and familiar as he sank into the darkness, his finger on the trigger and voices he knew asking why, telling him to stop, don't do it, don't-

"Hey, wake up."

The hand on his shoulder wasn't cold, and the voice was different, unfamiliar, and Allelujah opened his eyes-

"You okay?"

-and found himself not in space, not on a ship with a gun in his hands, but in a small, cluttered room, light from the streetlamp outside filtering in through the gap in the curtains and it all felt very foreign and strange.

'_A dream,' _Hallelujah whispered,_ 'this is a dream.'_

"Allelujah..?"

He shook his head, this was real, "Just a dream."

The other man did not look convinced but didn't question his response, instead deciding to sit on the floor, leaning against the bed and shutting his eyes, seeming content to go back to sleep right there. The action was…bizarre to say the least and left Allelujah feeling slightly confused. He had joined this group, Celestial Being, and now he was here with this man who said his name was Lockon Stratos, another Meister, but it was nothing like Allelujah had expected.

It was just strange; the normalcy, friendly words, and warm laughter. The smile he'd been greeted with, wide and infectious that Allelujah could not help but return. A quiet shadow of a smile, but a smile none the less.

"Just go to sleep, Allelujah. It's late and we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

He stared at the older man through the darkness of the room and wondered why he was here; he had his own room, didn't he? It didn't make sense.

'_He's crazy,' _was Hallelujah's reply.

"Life doesn't make sense."

Allelujah's jumped, not realising he had spoken out loud, he was too used to being on his own.

_Hallelujah laughed_.

Not alone.

Lockon laughed, looking back at him, green eyes filled with amusement and warmth, "But it doesn't matter. Don't worry. Just make the most of the peace and quiet while it lasts and get some rest, the world will still be here when you wake up and so will I."

"But…why?"

"Because I want to," that was the only answer Allelujah received, the other man still smiling, "so just go to sleep."

Maybe he had just been too tired, but this time when Allelujah closed his eyes the dreams did not come and Hallelujah was silent. And maybe he had woken up alone, something that had had made him almost sad for reasons he could not explain, but the smell of fresh coffee and a loud crash followed by cursing brought a smile to his face. It even made him laugh. It was all something so strangely normal, different from running and hiding and fearing himself and what he could become.

He thought he could get used to this.

Hallelujah said nothing at all.


	2. Visitor

_A/N._ Sumeragi doesn't know why he came to visit, but she doesn't mind, she never does. Set sometime in S1, Sumeragi and Allelujah, originally written for a friend on LJ.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Visitor**

She smiled as she picked up the empty wine bottle and took the empty glass from Allelujah's hand. Dropping it would not cause it to hit the floor before she could catch it as it would have had they been on solid ground, but it was still something she would prefer to avoid.

The young man had come to visit her, knocking lightly on her door upon his return to space. It had been late but she could never – and would never – turn him away, no matter what time of the day or night it might be. She was too fond of him for that, and she kept strange enough hours as it was, running through tactics and predictions until all hours of the morning, her and Veda comparing notes with just her alcohol for company. She knew she had work she needed to do, but she could not and would not turn Allelujah away, especially not when he was bringing the wine and smiling in that shy way of his, apologising for interrupting her.

So she had ushered him inside and taken down two glasses from her cabinet and not asked for the reason behind his presence. There usually was one, and she would find out soon enough what it was. She always did.

Him sitting on the edge of her bed, and she sideways at her desk they had filled their glasses and made mindless toasts, to good health, luck and a quick end to the war. They had spoken of mindless things, of anything but the past or the war. She told him of the few comings and goings aboard the Ptolemaios and of Christina's petition for something – anything – that even vaguely tasted of real food to be added to the menu. He had smiled and laughed at that, easily able to picture the young woman in question making such demands, and certain other members of the crew going along with her.

In return he had told her of the events of their trip to Earth which had been left out of the mission report, not deemed important enough for Veda, but which were entertaining none the less. He told her of the culinary mishaps, though perhaps disasters was a better description, and the time they had ventured into the city for supplies and nearly lost Setsuna to the veritable maze of the underground rail system. She had laughed at that, a little sorry she had missed it, but glad she could at least hear about their misadventures none the less.

They laughed and spoke of nonsense matters and emptied the bottle he had bought on Earth and she never found out if there had been any other reason behind his visit this time, and part of her was thankful. It made her feel that maybe he had come simply for the pleasure of her company, it made her feel less alone and more human.

She stood there a moment or two longer, smiling gently at the young Meister who had fallen asleep on her bed, long legs still hanging off the edge. The practical part of her brain told her she should wake him and tell him to return to his own room, but…

Quietly she put away the empty bottle and glasses and pulled down a spare blanket. It wasn't the first time he had crashed out on her, but last time he had drunk too much too fast and she hadn't blamed him. He had thanked her the following morning, but she had waved it off, he was more than welcome. She tucked the blanket round his sleeping figure and hesitated a second or two longer than usual.

An unguarded smile, simply because he could not see it, after all, she wasn't supposed to play favourites. Then she turned away, back to her desk, and back to work.

"Sleep well, Allelujah."


	3. Stars and Strength

_A/N._ Feldt watches the stars, listens to stories and thinks. Set sometime in S1, Feldt and Neil.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Stars And Strength**

She'd always seen the stars, travelled among them for most of her life even. She'd spent more time in space than she'd ever spent on Earth. She didn't hate the Earth as Tieria claimed to. She knew they were trying to save it, to bring an end to war. It sounded fancy, impressive, and when she watched the news citing battle after battle after battle she sometimes wondered, in her quietest moments, if they really could. She knew they would though, eventually, even if it took years upon years upon years, longer than her lifetime. She liked to believe it could and would be done.

If this little island could be at peace, why could the rest of the world not be as well?

The little deserted island base. She had only been here a few times; there was no need for her here. The Ptolemaios was where she was needed, on the bridge, not at the base. Space was her life. But either way, she liked it here. It was quiet and peaceful and she could hear the sounds of the Earth which she couldn't in space, or in the towns and cities they passed through, even Wang Liu Mei's mansion, it all felt fake. This was natural, and this was what, in some ways, she hoped they were trying to save, this beautiful, peaceful place that people seemed to want to destroy. Could they not see what they really had here, what they were trying to throw away?

The night was quiet, warm, and peaceful, and it was strange to be looking up at the stars she spent her life living among, sitting on the beach, listening to the wind and waves. In some ways she envied the pilots for being able to come down here as often as they did as she closed her eyes and breathed in the real air, the sand soft and fine under her fingers. Down here was the Earth, and up there was space. They were two different worlds. Were they two different views as well? She didn't know.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

The voice made her jump, embarrassed, whether at being caught off guard or caught out so late or just at who had caught her, it wasn't clear but she was glad the dark hid her probably very red face, as she apologised, "Lockon, sorry."

Smiling and shaking his head he sat down next to her, looking up at the skies, "So, what brought you out here so late?"

"Couldn't sleep." she replied. She wasn't lying, but the whole truth may have sounded odd, about wanting to see the skies from a different perspective.

Again he smiled, and maybe he knew she wasn't telling the whole truth, as he let himself fall back onto the sand and pointed to the sky, beginning to trace out figures in the stars, listing names, legends, and myths.

And she sat with her head on her knees watching the skies, and the pictures he painted in the stars she lived among, and she felt very small. Just one tiny part of a much wider world they were trying to save. She wasn't sure if that was the right word, but it worked, sort of, maybe...

She didn't notice when he had stopped talking as she drifted between awake and asleep, her eyes drifting shut, but she wanted to stay here. On this beach, on this quiet little island, this place called Earth that people didn't seem to know was so beautiful, just watching the stars.

"It can be done, can't it?" She asked, not quite knowing her own words. "Saving the world?"

"I don't know about save, but we can give them a good push in the right direction."

She paused for a moment, looking back up at the stars. So, so many of them, all with tales told about them, hopes and dreams and wishes. Then she nodded, satisfied with the answer.

There was quiet laughter in his words as he looked at the girl, half asleep, staring at the night sky, peaceful and quiet and he smiled, "That can wait until morning though."

She could have walked perfectly fine, she knew that somewhere in her sleep-hazed mind, but his back was warm as he carried her back to the base - she still thought 'piggyback' was a daft word - and his arms were strong, and she felt safe knowing that.

And maybe they'd be strong enough to give the world that push it needed, and then she could watch the stars paint a new story. It made for a nice dream so she tucked it away and kept it safe in her heart.


	4. Red Lights

_A/N._ Sometimes, it feels like coming home. Set sometime during Season 1, Neil and Feldt, one of the first oneshots I wrote so quite possibly slightly out of character.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Red Lights**

She knows she shouldn't keep coming to him with her problems and wandering thoughts or when she just wants a little company and doesn't want to have to answer questions. He knows he shouldn't encourage her, always accepting of her presence and never turning her away, and he'll make the time to listen or talk or just watch the world go by, because that's what he does.

Once, she falls asleep without his noticing, her head resting on his shoulder. He has to laugh at that, quietly so as not to disturb her while he tries to decide how to deal with the peculiar situation. It seems something of a shame to wake her.

Somewhere between debating with himself what to do and actually coming to a decision he closes his own eyes, and that is the end of that.

She thinks something is different when she wakes up, something is strange, and it takes her a moment or two to realise what it is, and she has to laugh quietly at the sheer absurdity of it all, more than a little embarrassed. More quietly still she slips away, returning with a borrowed blanket for the sleeping Meister, daring only now to whisper her thanks and kiss his cheek, asking Haro to keep her secret for her.

Christina can guess, teasing her friend for her crush, smiling all the while, upbeat and carefree. In all honesty she envies her friendship with him when her own crush is beyond unreachable, but all the same, Christina is happy for her - regardless of how foolish it is - and for that she is thankful as well.

He knows that Tieria frowns upon his closeness to the girl, and that written in Sumeragi's gaze is a wordless warning, in Allelujah's is concern. But, against perhaps his better judgment, he ignores them all and allows her to keep visiting, to keep talking and keep trying to bring a smile or a laugh to her serious features.

Once or twice, without realising it, she calls him by his real name and he wonders what hers is, or if she even knows it and he thinks he'll have to find out after the war is over. Not 'if', only 'when'. And he thinks of inviting her to see his home country after the war is over and now that it is peaceful there at last. And he's somewhat taken aback when he realises just how much he has come to enjoy her company, looking forward to seeing her whenever he's back on the ship or whenever they come down to Earth. She fills a gap he never expected anyone would.

More often than not, without realising it, his accent slips, back to that old familiar Irish of his youth, and she knows more often than not he doesn't notice, because when he does it stops short. And it's the little things she remembers the most, the everyday, normal things, and she can almost believe that there is an end to this war she was born into and lives through. And she hopes he will keep in touch when it does, she knows it is foolish, but none the less she wonders and dares to dream as she watches the screen, meticulously completing the docking procedure for the last one back.

She always greets Haro first, and he jokes that she cares more for the orange robot than him. It's become almost tradition, just like the accent and name, both now so familiar, and it's kind of like coming home.

Only the alarms are nothing like home, are not how home should be as they have to abandon their hot drinks and chatting, catching up time, both with work to do. And she has that concerned look hidden behind her serious eyes that tugs at his heartstrings and he doesn't need Haro batting him to gather the girl in his arms and hug her tight. He's never liked to see a girl afraid.

She's taken aback, confused, unsure how to respond, letting his words roll over her. Words she's heard before, and words she hasn't, words tumbling over each other, linked by that accent and ended with a small, almost petty request, something almost fierce in his tone, but comforting, warm, not in the least frightening.

She nods and he releases her, smiling kindly, that grin that everyone knows so well, but something softer in his eyes.

And she smiles back. It is only a small smile, but it is a start, and it is better than a worried frown.

And he ignores the voice which sounds like his but isn't that he knows would laugh at the whole situation.

And despite the red light alarms he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

And despite the red light alarms and chaos and war she knows he'll come home again soon.


	5. Sense You

_A/N._ Five one-hundred-word drabbles focusing on Tieria (and Lockon), one for each of the senses. Set throughout season one.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Sense You**

Lockon had laughed when he first found out Tieria had no need for the glasses he wore. Snapping up the frames from the table where they had been working and refusing to give them back, twisting the piece of metal and glass between his gloved fingers, weighing up options beyond Tieria's comprehension - A fashion accessory then? – No – Smirking he tried them on.

"How do I look?"

Older, Tieria thought as he stopped working, surprised at his own thoughts, and too serious.

"Like an idiot." He replied shortly, snatching his glasses back and refusing to let Lockon have them again.

* * *

He always carefully measured out the ingredients when cooking, following the recipe exactly by the book, turning out the meal exactly as it was supposed to be. So he had looked on with a frown when Lockon had taken over and started making a mess. He'd tossed aside the measuring jugs and scales and books and just began throwing things together in a haphazard fashion.

It looked like a disaster, but it tasted-

"What is this?"

"Family recipe."

-better than anything Tieria had made.

He supposed this was what 'home-cooking' was and thought he'd like to try more of it.

* * *

His hands were strangely cold, not what Tieria had expected as he frowned over the bruised fingers – Idiot, shutting your hand in the door. Lockon didn't complain, but was quick to put his gloves back on – It's fine, no need to fuss.

He'd heard a phrase once: cold hands, warm heart.

"What's wrong?"

He thought he might have believed it as Lockon offered his good hand to help Tieria up.

"It's nothing."

Yet he still accepted the leather clad hand, rougher and worn from years of use. He hadn't meant to, but he wanted to know what it felt like.

* * *

He'd never before understood the human fear of hospitals, it was foolish to fear such a place, but he'd stepped outside because the smell was making him ill.

It was a foolish concept; the medical room had no smell. Yet the air had felt heavy, choking, Doctor Moreno speaking, explaining the situation, the cold, hard facts.

He'd listened, but heard nothing as he stared past the doctor to the patient behind him, to Lockon, to the man who could well have died today.

Tieria felt ill because he had found that hospitals smelt of death and mortality, a psychological fear.

* * *

Never had Tieria been simultaneously more relived and more irritated to hear Lockon speak, that all too familiar jovial tone, as if everything was just fine, when in reality wasn't. The reaction shocked even him, it wasn't something he was used to, but, at the same time, it was not a reaction he would have traded in.

The voice meant Lockon was alive, but it also meant he was disobeying doctor's orders. That was why Tieria locked the door. No-one could crack Tieria's re-written codes. Tieria didn't want to lose the sound of the voice, the man, he loved.

"Sorry."


	6. Boredom

_A/N._ A bored Lockon annoys Tieria. Set sometime during season one. (I don't write humour often, but this was written during class last year to save from throwing a screaming hissy fit at the teacher, hence the complete randomness of it.)

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Boredom**

The screen blinked once and died with a barely audible fizz and a much more audible and inventive curse as Lockon hit the offending – and now useless – piece of machinery.

"Don't break it beyond any hope of repair, Lockon." Tieria's voice drifted up from the sofa, nose buried in a book and sounding just slightly exasperated with him. "Just wait for Allelujah to return with the parts and then _I_ will fix it."

"But-"

"No 'buts', Lockon Stratos, leave the computer alone, sit down and shut up; you are giving me a headache."

There was decidedly too much complaining following the order, but he never the less obeyed, Haro interjecting with his own responses as they took a seat on the sofa, long legs swung straight across Tieria's lap and the book easily plucked from the Meister's hands.

"Get off and give that back, you are utterly incorrigible today, what has got into you?"

Lockon looked up from the book and fixed Tieria with his best older brother, know-it-all grin and stated quite simply: "I'm bored."

"Bored! Bored!" Haro agreed cheerfully.

"Then find something to do!"

"I have – I'm reading."

"No, you are not: you are making a nuisance of yourself."

"That works too."

He had just about enough of the older man's antics today.

Tieria twitched.

"Tieria…?" He had the sense to sound almost worried. "Are you okay?"

With a highly undignified shriek the purple haired Meister lunged across the sofa, displaying a vocabulary Lockon had never though Tieria knew, let alone would use.

* * *

Setsuna blinked. The scissors dangling from his fingers and the request for a haircut dying on his lips, replaced with a suitable: "Uh…"

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the scene he'd been presented with upon walking into the room. He couldn't quite tell what had happened, but between the laughter and the cursing and the tangle of arms and legs, a book being held just out of reach, Setsuna decided something:

"I'll come back later," he said, turning and walking straight back out the door.

"Not bored anymore!" Haro's voice drifted down the hall after him. "Not bored anymore!"


	7. Letter To NoOne

_A/N._ No one was going to read it, but he still felt it still had to be written. Set during season one sometime between the end of episode 21 and midway through 23. A bit different from most other things.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Letter To No-One**

The biro was worn out, chewed up and as good as useless, but it would do, scratching across slightly crumpled notepaper, fading in and out as he wrote. One corner of the page was full of scribbles from trying to get the pen to work in the first place and multiple times later on when it had all but given up the ghost. The sound of pen on paper was the only noise to break the silence that had settled over the room an hour earlier, long after everyone else had turned in, leaving behind wishes and orders, neither of which he'd adhered to, choosing instead to sit at the empty table in the canteen and write.

_There was always a line between Right and Wrong, one everyone is supposed to know, regardless of which side they fall on in the eyes of others. Right is peaceful, studious, never causing trouble, while Wrong is exactly the opposite. Wrong are all the people who are strung up on the news and talked down, black listed, a price on their heads for the atrocities they have committed. People like those who brought the Middle East to its knees and left it in tatters, people who create child-soldiers and civil war and bring terror to the world._

It had been a decade since he had last written like this, yet there were a few skills from his old school days that had remained, used in other ways - there were more than a few differences between a history essay and a mission report yet the similarities were still there - but the older style of writing, with a biro and paper just minus the pile of text books and print outs and deadlines, flowed with as much ease as it ever had. His way with words on a page better, truer, than those that were spoken, a fact he blamed squarely on how much he had read, and not only as a child. Words on a page were easier, black or blue or red or whatever other colour he had acquired from the pen pot or had been left in the printer creating patterns across the clean, white page, like footsteps and angels in freshly fallen snow.

_There has always been war, and the people who create it, fight it, and keep the cycle going, and maybe they deserve as much as anyone else to be black listed thusly. Ending war with war is not right, yet talking never solves anything, people only understand a fist to the face or a gun to the head, the heart, aimed at themselves in general, a threat to their own continued survival. It is just the way of humans to fight and to kill and to not understand until it is too late and the likes of Celestial Being have to appear and so the fighting continues, but at least it is now with a united effort._

At a snatch of movement out the corner of his one good eye he pauses to catch the small robot before he rolls off the table, Haro giving him a look that meant he was wondering if he'd found a new game, clearly a little disappointed at the shake of the head and wordless apology and soft smile as he placed the robot back on the table. Haro watched as he picked up the pen again, chewing absently on the end of it and frowning at the page, reading back over the words and reaching for the nearly empty coffee cup.

_When the realisation that this was the purpose of the plan to which Celestial Being has been working, and previous world history is taken into consideration, it becomes clear that there is only one outcome: a war not between factions on Earth but between Earth and those who have been waging an indiscriminate war against them all. War between Earth and Celestial Being is inevitable, and there is only one truly favourable outcome, for the victors in war are always those who are Right, never those who are Wrong. As the initiators of this war, the invading force, the crimes committed under the name of Celestial Being are too great in number to be forgiven. Celestial Being is Wrong and Earth is Right; Celestial Being are those who shall surrender or die trying live._

The words were easy, their meaning was not. Their meaning was the cold chill of blue ink on a white page, facts and old knowledge and experience, and he knew that their tactical advisor had to be aware, that maybe she had been all along. The coffee had gone cold, the room cold, and maybe he had too, because there was a certain detachment that came with the words, just words on a page, just another essay to be written, handed in, marked and handed back with red pen annotations and notes about the lack of source citation. However, he had no text books or print outs or deadlines to meet, no teacher to mark this scribbled note on old paper with an older pen by a man too old and too tired; just a cold room and cold coffee and a robot for his last friend left.

_Celestial Being will be destroyed for the world, for Earth, to live. Those who fight for what they believe to be, if not right, then at least the most efficient method of gaining peace will be destroyed, broken, left for dead or captured, put to death and made an example of: This is what happens when you go up against what is Right. Those who are Right destroy the monster they created in the first place. It is because of them that we exist, that we fight for our lives out here in space and on Earth, and now we have what we wanted - Earth united, but now we are the sacrifice._

The handwriting was sloppier now, close enough illegible, as he wrote faster, his expression unreadable, no longer writing an essay, no longer keeping it neat and tidy and well marked.

_We go to die, and I don't want that, not for myself, and definitely not for the children on this ship, because they are just that: children. Some of us are old, some of us know better, most don't, not really, they're no more than children and they shouldn't be out here, but they, like us, are walking to their deaths. These people we have been working to help are out to kill us. Would they change their minds if they knew how young the crew is here?_

The paper was crumpled, ripped and torn, tossed like confetti in the air, paper snow that settled round the broken pen left abandoned on the table and around the empty coffee cup, the writer walking out the door, Haro under one arm, never looking back.

_I don't care what happens to me, just let the children live._

_Lockon Str---_

_Neil Dylandy, 2307 AD._


	8. Liar

_A/N._ Hallelujah lied. Set during season one, episode twenty-five.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Liar**

_I'll never leave you alone._

As a child Hallelujah had scared him; merciless and temperamental, a wicked, evil being that lived inside of him. Hallelujah had laughed when he killed the other children on the ship – for their survival, he had said, wiping the blood from his hands – and Allelujah had begged him to leave, tears in his eyes. Allelujah hated Hallelujah.

"I'll never leave you alone, Allelujah," Hallelujah had said as way of reply.

His words had sounded like a threat. A noose which Allelujah would find himself hung by, it was like waiting on death row, and Hallelujah was the one holding the rope, pulling it tight so he could not escape. Hallelujah was judge, jury and executioner, and Allelujah was guilty.

_I'll never leave you alone_.

Allelujah had screamed for Hallelujah to go away, to stop killing, stop the bloodshed, to stop pulling the trigger on the gun.

But Hallelujah would only smirk – BANG – "Never." Stubborn defiance and one wild, gold eye glinting in the half-light of the battlefield. Hallelujah was everyone's executioner and Allelujah could only watch, barred from the fight. Hallelujah laughing, and Allelujah's hands never touching the trigger as the blood continued to flow by Hallelujah's hand.

That was the way it had always been. Hallelujah would kill and laugh and Allelujah would plead with him to stop.

_I'll never leave you alone._

It was both a threat and a promise. Allelujah would not have to kill because Hallelujah would. Hallelujah would ignore Allelujah's pleas. Hallelujah would see to it that Allelujah was protected and kept alive because Allelujah did not have the heart to kill to save them. Hallelujah could never leave him alone, always laughing, the manic, crazed murderer, hated so that Allelujah should not hate himself.

_I'll never leave-_

"You lied." Allelujah whispered, his hands shaking staring at his bloodied reflection – the blood on his hands, not Hallelujah's hands, not their hands, his hands – and he felt cold. His mind was empty and he was alone, completely alone inside his own head. There was no laughter, whispered words of darkness and promised threats. He felt small and scared and so, so alone. Once again he was begging Hallelujah with tears in his eyes, but this time he wanted him back, he didn't want to be alone.

"You lied, Hallelujah. You swore you'd never leave me alone."


	9. Guards of Mice

_A/N._ Post season one, Lockon, another of those slightly more bizarre ones that doesn't necessarily make sense but was fun to write nonetheless.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Guards of Mice**

He'd always figured Hell would be hotter than this, and less, well, grey and chilly. Still, death didn't have to make sense. So he shrugged it off and started walking, no destination in mind, no idea even where he should be going in the first place, there was nothing to do but just walk.

There was also no sound, nothing at all, not even his boots on the rocks that sometimes crumbled underfoot. It wasn't like anything he had read about anywhere, but then maybe this was all there was now. Just grey rocks for the rest of eternity. He was going to go stir crazy if that was the case, not that he wasn't at least a little crazy already, but it was the thought that counted, right?

He hoped the others had survived; they had to have, right? Otherwise they'd be here too. But then maybe they wouldn't, or shouldn't, each to their own and all that. He may have been damned but they certainly weren't, so surely, if anything had happened to them then they would be somewhere far more pleasant than this barren wasteland he seemed doomed to wander.

Kicking at the loose pebbles he hoped that Haro had made it safely back to Ptolemaios, he'd be well cared for there, little Feldt would make sure of it, and she'd live, she'd promised him as much, and he was almost sure Tieria couldn't die. It wasn't a theory he wanted to test though. Hallelujah wouldn't let Allelujah die and Miss Sumeragi would keep the crew safe from harm. They had to be okay, alive and well, all of them safe, they had to be-

"Feeling guilty?"

The voice shocked him, turning fast and reaching for a gun that wasn't there, "The hell-"

"Yeah, nice to see you too," Lyle grinned viciously, not looking all that different from when Neil had last seen him all those months back in Ireland, right down to the black suit and umbrella.

"This isn't happening," he muttered, shaking his head and taking a step back. He was dead and Lyle was not, therefore Lyle should not be here, Lyle should be at work, happily oblivious, safe and most importantly: alive.

"No, it isn't," Lyle replied, twirling the umbrella round in his hand and turning to saunter away, "but it is what you make it."

Right, he'd lost it, the heat, or lack thereof, had killed whatever brain cells he might have had left. Lyle didn't do riddles and other such nonsense, Lyle had always been the sane and sensible one, ergo: "You're not my brother."

'Lyle' snorted and muttered something he couldn't hear, and probably didn't want to; the reaction was too similar to the real Lyle.

It hadn't been a question. It had merely a statement he felt had to be voiced for his own piece of mind as he fell into step beside the stranger masquerading as his only living relative. "Who are you?"

"No-one," he shrugged, switching his umbrella to the other hand, "nothing, something, anything, does it really matter?" A sly, wry, biting grin was shot Neil's way, but he continued on quickly, not allowing for an answer, "Real question is: why are _you_ here?"

Neil stopped and gave the stranger a look that clearly called them stupid, "I'm dead, why else?"

The stranger just smiled in return, "Then why are you _here_?"

"I don't know, where might _here_ be? If you tell me that then I might be able to give you answer."

"Nowhere."

"Gathered that much."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you _here_?"

If he hadn't already been irritated by the monotonous landscape and the stranger's stolen appearance then the riddles and talking in circles was going to drive him insane, "How the hell should I know?"

The stranger smirked, crossing his arms, umbrella now dangling at his side, becoming more and more like Lyle to Neil's eyes as he replied with just a hint of mischief, "You tell me."

He'd had it. He liked to think it took a lot to make him lose his temper, Tieria managed it, but Tieria knew exactly which buttons to press, and as kids, well, he and Lyle had been siblings, and the other idiots and terrorists of the world, well, they had it coming. But this was some no-name _thing_ that thought they could wander around wearing his brother's face and say whatever they liked and get away with because, hey, he was dead and lost anyway so why should it matter.

Neil snapped.

"I don't know, alright? Look, I just blew myself up on a revenge mission that had jack all to do with anything I was supposed to be fighting for and gods only know what the rest of the crew must think of me for it, hell, by all rights they should hate me; I hate me. So guess what, if you're here on some high and might morality trip then save your breath – I know I screwed up, I know I went about it all wrong, so just keep walking and I'll be on my way to hell to serve out my sentence, okay?"

The smirk was almost condescending now, "Feeling guilty?"

"Yes, is that the answer you want to hear? Yes, I feel guilty as hell because I am, and I'm guilty of a lot of things over the years, but right now you can add another to what I'm sure is a very long list: guilty of letting down everyone back on that ship."

"Then you've answered the question."

"Which one?"

The stranger seemed eternally unflustered and completely at ease despite the anger being directed at him, speaking patiently, as if to a child, "Why you're here."

"Great, just great…" Neil rolled his eyes, "And in English that would mean…?"

"You can't go forward," the stranger gestured towards what Neil guessed might have been east if there was any such thing as directions in this endless wasteland, "but you can't go back either since, as you said, you're dead. So where does that leave you?"

"Irritated," he muttered, reigning in any other less than smart comments he may have wished to use, before adding the now blindingly obvious: "Limbo."

"For someone supposedly so smart that took you a very long time." The stranger turned and started walking off again in a different direction to the one that he'd been going in previously and this time with a little more purpose to his step. "So, next question: What are you going to do about it?"

"What _can_ I do? There's still the small problem of my being dead, that tends to put a dampener on any kind of action."

"Dead, yes, but not gone." He stopped abruptly and looked back over his shoulder, the shadows of a nine year old Lyle with a plan to steal their grandmother's last batch of biscuits in his eyes. "There's still a chance you know."

"For…?"

The stranger's smile and tone softened, and Neil was reminded of someone else, someone he didn't think he was fit to face, not now, and maybe not ever, "A chance for you to forgive yourself. Do you want it?"

He had to laugh, there was no other response he could really give, he didn't care to forgive himself, and that was something he had long ago come to terms with, "It doesn't matter what I think of me, all that matters-"

"-Is the safety and well being of others," the stranger finished with a sigh. "Selfishly selfless."

"Just selfish," Neil corrected.

As long as they were happy and safe that was all that mattered.

"And if they're not…?"

Neil found he wasn't surprised that the stranger seemed to be a mind reader as well, he was getting tired of it all, "Then I guess that's why I can't go back and won't go forward. Who needs me?"

"Who do you think?"

He felt like a child, lowering his eyes to the ground. It didn't take a genius to figure out the answer to that one. The one person who would have been hurt the most and wouldn't know or understand how to cope.

"Tieria."

The stranger nodded.

"How can I help?"

"I think you already know how."

He gave a slight grin of his own, "I don't think Tieria believes in ghosts."

"No," the stranger agreed, "but he does believe in you."

"Even now?"

"Even now, because he doesn't know otherwise."

"He'll figure it out; he's a lot smarter than I was."

"Then you should do what you do best," the stranger shrugged and walked back past Neil, back to sounding like Lyle and more, the cold, accusing fire in his eyes and voice: "Lie."

With that Neil was once again alone, everything back to grey rocks and chill, but this time he didn't notice it. Tugging at his gloves and closing his eyes he listened.

Being dead didn't mean anything, not when he was still needed, not when he could still try to help make a difference, and not when there were other who could not let go. He was tied to all of this, because it was his own work that needed undoing, fixing. He had tied the knots and no one else could unravel them.

A distant curse of his name made him grin even as he fixed the bright and cheerful, carefree mask in place.

After all, there was no rest for the wicked.


	10. Nothing Left

_A/N._ Lyle gets some bad news. Set sometime before season two, a possible missing scene from ALS which didn't quite fit in and so became a oneshot.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Nothing Left**

He hadn't had time to pick up the post that morning, throwing it on the sideboard and running out the door, barely remembering to grab his coat and swearing he'd have to buy a new alarm clock on his way back, the stupid thing he had now could have been going backwards for all the use it was.

Later the post had been buried under work and a coffee mug and Thursday night's take-away and consequently forgotten about completely until the weekend when he finally had a chance to clear up. He'd been about to throw it all out. It was probably just junk mail anyway. All he ever got was junk mail and bills, and the bills had already all been through for the month.

One envelope however caught his eye; it had none of the usual garish colours and slogans. Instead it was neatly printed, addressed and stamped. It looked official so he tore it open, quickly scanning the letter inside.

He got to the bottom and stopped, stared and re-read it before sitting down in the middle of the floor.

They had to be kidding.

But they weren't, it was right there in black and white and the lady on the other end of the phone was less than helpful when he tried to tell them no, he was not allowing it. She told him it was merely a letter stating what was happening, that he had no choice in the matter, the house was unused and he had been told simply because he was the eldest - only - surviving resident. He had wanted to say they should had sent the letter to Neil then, but in their eyes his brother was dead, dropped off the radar the day he'd left their grandparents house and never returned.

He'd thrown the phone down in frustration and thrown the letter, now just a crumpled ball of paper, at the wall, both followed by an inventive, and probably impossible, string of suggestions about what they could do with themselves as he picked up the car keys and left the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

The woman had been right though, he didn't have a choice, as he stared out of the front windscreen at the levelled ground. He killed the engine, stepped out of the car, locked the door and walked slowly across the road, resting his hands lightly on the criss-crossing metal of the fence.

He stared at the levelled ground, the little white signs and red labels, the government tape and bureaucracy.

He stared, the metal biting his cold fingers as his hands clenched around the wires and then he screamed, but there were no workers this late at night and the neighbourhood he had grown up in no longer existed. There was no one there to hear him.

The terrorists had taken his family, revenge had his brother, but the so-called good people of the world had taken the one thing he had left: his childhood home.


	11. Something To Remember You By

_A/N._ Feldt made her choice, and she would not forget. Set before season two, written on an over-thought whim.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters

**Something To Remember You By**

She looked again at the uniform she had laid out neatly on the bed, and part of her almost wished she could go back to wearing her old clothes. These ones represented everything that was new and official as well as old, represented the new her. She had chosen to stay, chosen her uniform with care and ignored the disapproving look she had received for mixing up the items of clothing, replacing the shirt she had been given to the shelf and picking up one from further down.

She took her time getting changed, the fabric crisp and practical, that new feeling to it all. It had no personality, a blank slate, but she had already begun to make it her own as she picked up her hairbrush and started on the task of taming her wildly curly hair. She had grown it out for the same reason she had changed her uniform, pulling it back into a single ponytail and fixing it with the silver clip that had sat on her table for too many years.

She placed the hairbrush back down and ran her gloved fingers through the strands she had left loose. It felt strange with the two locks framing her face, but at the same time it also felt right, her fingers brushing over the smart green collar of her shirt, partly concealed by the pink jacket. The touch of mismatched colour – green, the same as his – and changed hairstyle – practical yet feminine, just as she had worn it – to remind her of the past, and of the future.

She knew Ian would sigh, and shake his head, offering her that fatherly, understanding smile. Tieria would frown, but she knew he wouldn't say a word, and she knew why, but couldn't find the words to tell him she understood. While Lasse would just give her that look that asked why, but he wouldn't voice the question and she wouldn't answer it.

This was who she was, the old her and the new, a patchwork of mementos and memories stitched together to create something stronger. This was someone who could stand on her own two feet and do more than just live on.

Chris...

Lockon...

She could live on for the sake of those who were no longer here because they were her strength; they had made her who she was today. They were why she could stand here today in a new uniform and start a new life in the same place her old one had ended.

"So," she said finally, breaking the silence that had been almost reverent as she made her preparations for her first day back at work. "How do I look?"


	12. In The Mirror Glass

_A/N._ Tieria's reflection is not perfect. Kind of season one but also season two-ish up until before the end of episode eight.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**In The Mirror Glass**

It had always been his reflection in the glass, cold and calculated, functioning just as planned, as made. Everything had its own perfunctory place, a reason and logic. Facts and figures and nothing else mattered, just the plan. Just being the best, being perfect.

Everything had made sense, even among the mess, confusion of the other Meisters brought in their wake, with their strange words and strange emotions. It was all just strange. Yet he had remained as he had always been, the way he had to be. Had been trained, had been programmed, and had been made. Their words made no sense. No logic.

But then HE had saved his life. There was no reason or logic to that. No sense: nonsense. It was not part of the plan. System shut down. Lock down. Fall down.

That was when he realised he had a heart; and it had just stopped. Stopped dead from fear, concern. Haro's words shaking him.

He did not - could not - understand.

Kind words like 'free will' and 'human'.

This was what it meant to be human.

And nothing made sense.

But his heart was beating loud and clear, and nonsense told him to act. It told him how to act - how to save a life - even if he did not know why.

So he changed the locks and scowled, determined to end this once and for all. And it was not part of the plan. But he was outside the plan now. He was a little different. Had been rewired, image over image repeating word after word.

But locks were broken. Lies were broken. Lives were broken. His stopped heart was broken.

Nonsense and free will and broken meant to be human outside the plan.

He blamed everyone.

He did not know why.

He lied.

But he was pieced back together. But he was out of place. Out of sorts. Mismatched. Missing. Parts of himself non-existent. Replaced. Overlapped. Patched up and reset. Memory banks filed. Neat. Tidy. Perfection in disarray.

Corrupted truths with more meaning and less reality. Only perfection, simplicity, twisted words and inflections.

It made sense to him, fixing his heart with half-truths and ideals. Believing it. Making it real. Wrapping it round himself like a blanket. A keep-sake. Safety and kindness.

Love.

It had always been his reflection in the glass.

Now the broken mirror refracted a half-lie believed to be truth. Living in a world outside of the plan. Living in a world outside of life.

This was not what HE had meant in telling him that he was human, in giving kind words, encouragement and hope. HE gave those to everyone.

The person in the broken mirror glass, broken inside and out, would be broken again and again and again.

Because in the mirror glass was only wonderland, and not the world in which he had to live. Clinging to the ghosts of the past, twisting words, twisting meanings, not knowing - understanding - friendship from love.

If envy had green eyes then obsession's red eyes stared out into the night sky.

And echoes of the past created his damned future, lips moving to the words and world he had created.

A dance macabre of mismatched wires.

System failure.


	13. Double ASide

_A/N._ A festive and slightly cracky, out-of-character-Tieria interlude. Both seasons one and two.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Double A-Side**

The festive spirit was something that Lockon insisted on bringing every year, including the vast quantities of glittery, shiny paper and elaborate, curled ribbons. It looked absurd; the gifts piled up on the table in the canteen, each with its own individual label and gleefully handed out to every member of the crew. Unfortunately others had caught on fast and brought their own knowledge and traditions, from drinks and food to party games and off-key songs. It was one huge headache and one Tieria was intent on avoiding after having been dragged the previous year into an endless game called monopoly in which Sumeragi had insisted on being the 'banker' and Allelujah had finally won even after several episodes of cheating from both Lockon and Christina. Tieria hadn't seen the point of it and had stated as much.

"Scrooge," Lockon had replied, laughing. "It's for fun, that's all."

This year the canteen was quiet, almost too quiet, as he retrieved his breakfast and ate in silence, almost expecting them to jump out from behind the tables in peals of laughter and paper hats – he didn't quite understand those either, they served no purpose beyond a daft form of decoration.

It was only when he left the canteen, still no one present, that he remembered that they weren't here, both Lockon and Allelujah having been dispatched to Earth, Sumeragi dragging Christina and Feldt along to help. He surprised himself with the sudden disappointment that came with the recollection. Still, at least he could get his work done without any distractions he decided and changed directions, heading for the bridge instead of his room.

A message was blinking on the screen when he entered, and for a moment he was worried that someone had missed something important, but the thought was short lived.

_Tieria,_

_Don't think you're getting out of it that easily – I left your present with Ian and your presence is requested in the meeting room this afternoon for a monopoly rematch by order of Miss Sumeragi._

_See you soon, and you'd better show, else I'll send Lasse to find you._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Lockon_

He laughed. Alone on the bridge of the Ptolemaios Tieria stared at the screen and laughed; Lockon was incorrigible.

The screen blinked again, a new message appearing.

_P.S. Do you know about mistletoe?_

* * *

It was disconcerting in a way to wake up one morning and find that the Christmas fairy had been while he was sleeping and it was worrying even to find Tieria and Setsuna wearing paper hats and still looking as serious as ever. He never expected them to know what Christmas was, let alone celebrate it at all. He stood in the doorway of the canteen and wondered if he was dreaming, but after pinching his own arms a few times and rubbing his eyes the sight was still there and he was just as confused as he had been five minutes earlier.

"Morning, Lockon," Sumeragi said, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek before joining Tieria and Setsuna at the table for breakfast. A breakfast that smelt a lot better than most things that the ship served and Lyle wondered where Linda was; Linda seemed like she'd be a good cook.

Tieria smirked and nodded at him, much to Lyle's further confusion.

"Oh no…" Allelujah muttered and Lyle turned to ask what was wrong only to find himself, rather awkwardly, on the receiving end of another kiss.

Allelujah jumped back, flushing a brilliant shade of red and stalked across the canteen to have it out with Tieria who was trying not laugh, and Sumeragi who wasn't even trying and was instead doubled over in a fit of hysterics.

Lyle stared at them for a moment and at Allelujah's embarrassed pointing.

Then he looked up, piecing two and two together.

"Lyle…?" Anew's soft voice came from behind him, touched with uncertainty.

Lyle grinned and gladly kissed her.

"Mistletoe," he explained solemnly, pointing to the greenery hanging above them and made a mental note to be more careful where he loitered for the rest of the day.

Though part of him had to wonder, just where had Tieria of all people learnt about mistletoe?


	14. Narcissus

_A/N._ Narcissus was the flower for the month of Decemeber. Set between seasons one and two, Feldt and Haro, who kind of took over not even half way through writing this thing.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters

**Narcissus**

She had forgotten her sixteenth birthday in the chaos that followed the fall of Celestial Being, just as her fifteenth had been lost among missions and work. Ian had remembered though and brought out a cake his wife had made after dinner was done, and she had smiled, and asked him to thank Linda for her, but she had eaten little and the day passed by with accidentally-on-purpose avoidance of any other crew members who knew, though the card tucked under her door bore Lasse's neat handwriting and the flower hair clip was clearly from Ian's young daughter whom she had met a time or two. She was a bright, cheerful little child who reminded Feldt of a younger Christina. The items were put away, safe in a drawer, she didn't feel like celebrating, but she would thank them none the less in the morning.

"Happy Birthday, Feldt. Happy Birthday, Feldt."

"Thanks, Haro."

She kept the little robot close, looking after him because no one else quite seemed to know how or else couldn't make the time. She did both, because Haro was the closest thing to a real friend she had right now, as much as she tried to reach out to Tieria, she still had a long way to go, and it was lonely out in space. Lasse and Ian were company, family, but it wasn't the same as having Chris there, or-

She cut off the line of thought there.

"Night, Haro."

"Sleep well. Sleep well."

The little robot watched her, always quiet, but more so now as she turned away in her bed, curled up in a ball, and drifted to sleep. Haro didn't sleep though, he was meant to look out for the girl, make her smile, and that was why he repeated the words everyone else had said - Happy Birthday - but she didn't seem happy. She was still sad, and Haro...didn't want Feldt to be sad, or empty, like missing data.

The room was strange at night, quiet Feldt too quiet and small, and hurt but he couldn't see where, and so couldn't report it and couldn't make her better again. But he tried.

Papers rustled and Haro nearly rolled off the desk, rolling over to see what was going on, but he couldn't see a thing. There was only a flower. One flower which he was sure hadn't been there before. Feldt hadn't brought back flowers, but he knew this one, she had told him the name once, a narcissus, bright white in the darkness.

_It means sweetness, the December flower._

"Lockon? Lockon?"

Crash.

"Lockon! Lockon!"

Feldt opened her eyes at the sound of Haro hitting the floor and quickly jumped out of bed again, her heart twisting as he kept repeating Lockon's name over and over again, bundling up the little robot in her arms. Maybe she wasn't the only who had nightmares about that day.

"Feldt sweet. Feldt sweet."

"Haro, are you okay? You haven't broken anything have you?"

"Haro fine. Haro fine." The little robot gave her a curious look. "Feldt broken? Feldt broken?"

She was crying again and she was tired and confused, but she didn't want to worry Haro, so she shook her head. "I'm okay, Haro."

"Feldt broken! Feldt broken!" Haro insisted, the flower momentarily forgotten in his distress at Feldt's tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Haro, I can't help it, I just..." The rest of her words were lost as she choked and bowed her head, her eyes hidden. "I'm sorry."

It hurt, it hurt so much, even now, and she knew it shouldn't. Lasse had said it was just crush, that she would get over it, but she hadn't, and it hurt. Chris had never said the same, she'd smiled and laughed and admitted even to a little jealousy that she and Lockon could speak as freely they did but Allelujah never seemed to have the time for her. Chris had understood what Feldt only now knew but didn't want to voice.

"Something wrong? Something wrong?" Haro was persistent, Lockon would have known what to say to fix the girl, he made her smile, and the robot remembered the flower. He repeated the message again. "Lockon says Feldt sweet. Lockon says Feldt sweet."

She gave a half-hearted smile, "Thank you, Haro, but I don't think so."

"Left present! Left present! Narcissus! Narcissus!" Haro was desperate by now, a broken Feldt was bad, a broken Feldt would make Lockon sad. "On desk! On desk!"

He heard her gasp, looking up at the desk and the white flower sitting harmlessly beside her only photo of the whole crew. A narcissus, she knew Haro knew that, she had taught him the name once at Wang Lui Mei's mansion, but it had been Lockon who later told her of the flower's meaning - "For December birthdays," he'd said, before adding with a grin, "Think we should get one for Tieria?" - and she had never had a chance to tell Haro. Only Haro and Lockon knew of her love of flowers.

Feldt smiled, and Haro was glad, as she stood up and picked up the flower, holding it carefully in one hand, the other still holding her robot friend tight. "Thank you, Haro."

"Not Haro. Not Haro." She still didn't seem to understand, not that he did either, but he felt the point needed to be stressed. "Lockon says Happy Birthday. Lockon says Happy Birthday."

"Thank you, Haro." She repeated, and her voice was quiet, but not the empty-quiet of broken, but the soft-quiet of the Feldt he knew from before. "And," she looked down at her photo, "Thank you, Lockon."

Haro wasn't sure if he heard her right, but he was sure he heard her add to the end of it: "Love you."

She kept the flower on her desk, kept it alive as long as she could, and kept the memory of it in her heart, and Haro watched as she began to fix other flowers, finding ways to make them grow with Linda's expert help. Anything and everything, and she told him about each and every one, changing with the seasons down on earth, her own little project amongst the war and preparations, but there was one flower she kept all year round: One single white narcissus which she kept in a vase beside her photo frame.

Narcissus were sweet, and so was Feldt, Lockon wasn't wrong. That was what Haro thought.


	15. Rough Hands and Cold Space

_A/N._ Lyle reflects on his first impressions of the Ptolemaios' crew. Set (and written) around the beginning of season 2.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Rough Hands and Cold Space**

His hands were rough, different from his brothers.

Sure they had both followed a similar career path, more similar than Lyle could have known before reading the details of Celestial Being's story, their purpose, that the boy – Setsuna – had handed to him on the streets of a nameless little Ireland-town. But Neil had always taken more care, always worn those sensible, tough leather gloves that were now frayed and worn out, the initials scratched onto the label in biro almost illegible now: L.D. Lyle had found them stuffed into the glove compartment of the old rally car which had been dumped in his driveway, keys hung by the door and an envelope full of money under the driver's seat. He'd spent the best part of that morning cursing his brother's stupidity as he tucked the gloves away in a box full of photo albums and trinkets and tried to decide how best to deal with the money. The car keys were replaced exactly where he'd found them once he was done.

Lyle hadn't always bothered with gloves, so his hands were rough, callused by years of disregard and carelessness.

Right now his hands were cold, gloves in his pocket, an unlit cigarette hanging from his fingers as he stared out at the stars. Smoking was not permitted onboard the Ptolemaios, a rule that made obvious sense, but still Lyle kept a packet in his room. Specifically, he kept it in the pocket of his trench coat where no one else might find it and confiscate it. The familiar, offending item of clothing was draped over his shoulders, over his new uniform, the heavy fabric warm, still smelling of home and not of the recycled air which reminded him of a hospital ward, all clean and crisp and completely uninviting. Space in general was just cold and uninviting as far as he could tell and Lyle had to wonder what the hell Neil had thought of it all, how the same older brother who'd always tried to make sure he was provided for had lived out here.

No, he knew, and it was the same damn reason Lyle was here now, and the same damn reason his idiot of a brother had died. Ideals and hopes and history and lies, and damn it did he ever want a light as he turned his back on the window and stared at the door instead. Cold, smooth metal that melted flawlessly into the wall and round into dark windows, no edges or corners anywhere. It was unsettling, just like too many others things on this ship.

Maybe it was because he hadn't been here four years ago and been through all the things they had, or maybe it was just because he was an outsider seeing things for the first time, but it felt like he was walking through a mausoleum sometimes. Everything felt...off, stuck, and he couldn't take the looks and the ghosts anymore. He had needed a damn break from being seen as both Neil and not-Neil at the same time, sick of being judged and compared and clearly not measuring up to whatever myth or legend his brother had left behind in the eyes of these people. In all honesty the clear distain in the eyes of the purple haired man – Tieria – when he'd first seen him, and every time since, sent a shiver down his spine and made him wish any number of impossible things. The top of the list being a tie between a smoke and Neil still alive so Lyle could tell him to set the damn record straight once and for all because the entire thing freaked him the hell out. Lyle had been round the block, he'd seen people obsessed with things that were less than healthy and Tieria's obsession with his brother was downright terrifying.

"The hell'd you do to these guys, Neil?" Lyle asked the empty room.

It was one thing to miss someone who had died and treasure the memories left behind, the box of mementos sitting in his cupboard back on Earth was proof of that, but it was something completely different to... To put the deceased on a damn pedestal and convince yourself that they were perfect, that they could do no wrong and had no faults, and that was just creepy since that was what he saw in Tieria's eyes. The comparison between himself and his brother, but not the brother Lyle had known, the foolish idiot who had chosen revenge over life, who used to skip class and get into fights just like Lyle had, and used to get in trouble for it too. He guessed Tieria knew none of that though, and, as much as the guy creeped him out, Lyle still felt sorry for him. Sorry that whatever good Neil had tried to drum into the purple haired man's head had been taken the wrong way if the echoed mutterings about being human were anything to go by. To be human was to be flawed, to be not-perfect.

The whole thing looked horribly twisted from where he stood and, honestly, Lyle had no idea how to deal with it. So he ran with his gut instinct - he threw on a smile, tossed out a few flippant lines and lied through his teeth. Lied about who he was, who he was supposed to be, snatching up yet another name and trying to make sense of the character of Lockon Stratos that Neil had dreamt up and everyone else had given life to. The other names – Allelujah, Setsuna, Sumeragi...the list went on – were all real names, or at least had deeper meaning. 'Lockon Stratos' had about as much personality as a name as 'Gene One', it was just a code, nothing else. Lyle had read the reports, all 'Lockon Stratos' meant was 'the man who can snipe from across the stratosphere', it was about as impersonal as he could get without just using numbers instead of letters. Neil had done a damn good job of covering up everything about himself, lying through his teeth even more than Lyle was now. Apparently his older brother had even covered up his accent, Lyle's own clear Irish tone taking them by surprise. Lyle was not surprised, not after everything else he had learnt. Neil had always been good at languages and at manipulating them. He'd tried to teach Lyle his tricks once, all that had resulted in was an evening full of hilarity and frustration as Lyle mangled more languages than he'd ever have need to use beyond the next days exams.

Now he kind of wished he'd paid more attention. He was this Lockon Stratos now, not Gene One or Lyle Dylandy. Though, he had a feeling that before this was all over people might have a few other, less polite, names for him. He couldn't be Lyle, he wouldn't be Neil, and definitely not Gene One, but at the same time, he couldn't be 'Lockon Stratos' either. He couldn't be the golden boy, everyone's confidant and friend, because then they'd see Neil and not him, he couldn't be the big brother, the marksman, the man on a mission. Instead, all he could do...

Lyle smirked and pulled his lighter from his coat pocket, sticking the cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

All he could do was breakdown and disgrace the name they loved, play the same part that his brother had – that of a liar – and pray that space was kinder to him than it had been to Neil.

He clicked the lighter shut, running his cold fingers over the initials engraved on the even colder metal in old style script – N.D. – and closed his eyes, resting his head against the glass window behind him as somewhere on the ship an alarm went off. Someone would be telling him off soon enough as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket, and he was fairly sure his brother would have understood his choice of actions, but none the less he had something to say before anyone found him, or found out about his plan.

"Sorry, Neil."


	16. Maybe Never

_A/N._ She knows Lyle is not Neil. Set during season 2, episode 4. (Wow, this one's old. It's actually the first 00 fic I wrote, way back in 2008 whilst waiting for my tutor to show up. Hence very short and different from my usual Feldt.)

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Maybe; Never**

Maybe it was just because he was kind to everyone, laughing, always smiling - a breath of fresh air when the other Meisters were cold, quiet or simply standoffish. He was carefree, careless, and careful, of everyone and everything. Maybe they weren't the words they wanted hear, but they were the words that were needed. They were good intentions and that was all.

Sometimes she didn't think he looked as old as he was; sometimes she thought he looked older. Sometimes she wondered what was really going on behind those shaded green eyes that turned so readily away from the world. Sometimes she hoped the darkness was only shadow and the light actually real and not as painted on as it sometimes sounded.

Perhaps she should have been stronger that day, and kept to their code of secrecy. Perhaps he shouldn't have shown her that same kindness he gave to everyone, a token of faith, of hope and home. Perhaps he shouldn't have given her his name. Perhaps, but she had taken it anyway, keeping that one small moment close to her heart.

Occasionally she had paid maybe a little more attention to his safety on the battlefield. Occasionally she had sometimes smiled more fondly when she heard his voice, the accent she would know anywhere. Occasionally perhaps she had cried more often than she should after his reckless death, listening to Haro trying to cheer her up.

Never had she felt as cold as when his brother had walked into their life - her life - looking just like him and sounding just like him, yet he would never be him. This brother was just not the same, could never be the same. He was too dark, too light, too careless and reckless. He was too alike, too similar, and all in all too hurtful.

And never had she wished the past undone more than when he ripped away those last remaining similarities by kissing her.

She knew he wasn't Neil, but that didn't stop her hand or her heart from hurting like hell as she turned and ran.


	17. The Thin Line

_A/N._ Allelujah wanted to give him a chance, instead he got harsh truth. Set at the beginning of seaon 2. Allelujah and Lyle. Written due to an unintentional prompt from a friend on LJ.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**The Thin Line**

He'd felt the colour drain from his face when the man called Lyle had walked into the room, casual as can be, wearing the face of the dearly departed. He'd felt his hands shake and his voice shook too as he spoke. He'd felt ill.

He'd not wanted to accept the stranger in place of his old friend, he wanted to lay the ghosts to rest, but that was impossible with Lyle around, laughing, joking, and taking stabs at people without a care. The stranger with the callous eyes knew what he was doing, took pleasure in discrediting his brother's – no, they couldn't be brothers, they were nothing alike – Lockon's good name.

Lockon had been good to all of them, listened to all of them, had been there for all of them. Lyle wasn't. Wasn't Lockon, wasn't any kind of replacement in terms of skills on the field or off. Wasn't listening when he had gone to sit down a week later in the canteen, attempting, as much as he did not want to, to make conversation, wanting to keep the peace as he had done before, wanting to try and find a little good among all the destruction.

"Afternoon," he'd said quietly, taking a seat and poking at the blocks of nutrition they called food.

Lyle had nodded, accepting the greeting, but not saying a word, Haro watching them both quietly, eyes blinking.

"Afternoon, Haro."

"Afternoon, Allelujah. Afternoon, Allelujah."

He'd smiled at the little robot, thankful for the familiar, cheerful recognition. Yet the silence that followed again afterwards was just as awkward as it had been before, if not more so, Allelujah unsure what to say and Lyle making no effort to help, shutting out the rest of the world as he ate in silence.

If Lockon had been there…

The thought made him wince inwardly, knowing the older man was never coming back still hurt. If Lockon had been there then there wouldn't be a problem, they would be talking just like old times, discussing the news, mission plans, or even just the latest book Lockon had lent him. Their conversations had been simple and easy and free, even while working within the confines of Celestial Being's secrecy policy.

Lyle laughed and Allelujah jumped.

Then, with a harsh twist, he realised he'd spoken out loud, too used to hours upon days on end of no one there to listen, never speaking loudly, but just whispers enough to keep him sane.

"Sorry-"

He began to apologise, but was waved aside, cutlery clattering to the tray as Lyle gave him a grin that was a warped echo of the one Lockon had always given everyone.

"You know that's a lie, right? All of it."

"What?"

He's shoved the chair back from the table and swept up the remains of his uneaten lunch, his tone sharp and metallic, "My dear brother wasn't half the saint you all make him out to be, he was a liar, a cheater and a thief; a selfish bastard."

"Don't-"

"Don't what, Allelujah?" Familiar eyes with a wholly unfamiliar light: angry and frustrated. "Don't try telling the truth for once? Don't give everyone a slice of reality? Don't wreck that pristine white image?" He shook his head, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You're all idiots for believing him."

Allelujah was surprised by his own anger as he shot back, "He was good to us! He helped us! You weren't here four years ago; you don't know what we all went through!"

"He left you. He purposefully ran, gleefully, to his own death." Lyle's next words were delivered with unwavering and unforgiving chill, tray in one hand, picking up Haro with the other. "He never cared about anyone but himself."

Allelujah let the fork drop to the tray, burying his head in his hands as Haro's parting words floated overhead, not knowing who they were directed at, if they were directed at anyone at all.

"Sorry… Sorry…"

Allelujah stayed there, head in hands, through his break until someone – maybe it had been Setsuna, he couldn't remember – came to find him, Lyle's words repeating in his mind over and over again. He didn't want to believe them, wanted to forget he'd ever heard them, but he couldn't and they made too much logical sense, and he wished he'd never bothered speaking to Lyle in the first place, the man was cruel, certainly not one of their own.

Mostly though, Allelujah wished he'd never spoken to Lyle because his words had been true, and his memories of a kind man had been blurred, tainted, and Allelujah didn't think he would ever be able to honestly say again that Lockon had been his friend. A friend was someone he knew and someone who cared, and he could say neither of Lockon now.


	18. Survival Rate

_A/N._ Lyle fights the past and present. Set during season two, episode five. Originally written for the Six Shot Challenge on LJ.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Survival Rate**

The fire and explosions were everywhere, people screaming, running, dying. Not just men, but women and children as well, everyone trying to get away from the flames and the war and _the falling building_. But the automatons were merciless, machines programmed to destroy everything and leave nothing standing.

The roof caved in, _crushing everyone,_ _the clear skies filled with dust and screams and pain and all he could do was stare_ and curse and pull the trigger and forget he wasn't supposed to be able to shoot like that. There was a familiar anger driving him on as he watched the silver machines fall and the fires grow, alarm bells ringing and_ the surrounding people yelling about terrorists and bombs and_ he continued to shoot them all down – these weapons of terror and fear.

He swore and spun Cherudim in ways others would have found familiar had they seen him, reminiscent of another by the same name as he_ stared and stared at the flames and heard nothing and no one, his mind completely blank._ He knew the bastards needed to pay for their crimes, that the A-Laws were to blame for this devastation and ruin, firing at the one retreating mobile suit that had _just watched and did nothing but stare at the ruins of what had been,_ and finally lowered his guns.

Standing among the wreckage he didn't want to look around and see with his own eyes the _broken bodies and_ torn up machinery, the smell of smoke and burning_ everywhere, families buried under the rubble._ The battle was over, but the war was still going on, and as_ he stared at the rows of dead bodies and the anger in his brother's dead eyes, _he listened to Klaus telling him how many had survived the attack.

"_They're dead,"_ Klaus said, and Lyle_ turned and fled and_ rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the memories behind them, _and cried._


	19. Morning

_A/N._ Kati needs her morning coffee; dealing with Patrick gives her a headache. Set during season two.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Morning**

Her head hurt. Then again that was not an unusually occurrence of late, and pretty much to be expected when dealing with one over-zealous Ace. Could he still be called that? She was not sure and it was too early to try and figure it out, at least before she'd had coffee. Which led her to her current problem: reaching said coffee.

She had grown used to waking up and finding matters…difficult. Patrick had an uncanny knack for making even toast into an adventure. How he did this was still beyond her comprehension.

Today he had taken it upon himself it seemed, to not only create a masterful breakfast laid out on mismatched cutlery – that explained the smashing sound she had heard earlier – but also to have used the coffeemaker jug in place of the vase he had broken the previous day.

"Patrick," she started, sighing and shaking her head, fixing him with her patented withering look. One she had reserved just for him.

"Yes, colonel?" he asked, bright smile turned up full blast, deeming her frowning completely ineffective. It seemed to be habit that he still kept calling her that. She wasn't sure if it was annoying or endearing.

"What-"

She had not even finished her question before the mug was placed in her hands, hot, fresh coffee as Patrick looked slightly abashed and stepped back.

"I'm sorry, I kind of…broke the coffee machine earlier, but I got you a new one!" he finished quickly, pointing at the sideboard and more than slightly expensive silver machine sat trying to look inconspicuous in the Patrick-cluttered kitchen.

Kati looked from Patrick to the machine and back again. He made her head hurt, he was sincerely an idiot. She shook her head again and smiled. He also made her laugh and, although she might not say as much as he began regaling her with the tale of his morning's adventure, right now that meant a lot to her.


	20. Feel Again Dream Again

_A/N._ She not only invaded his dreams, she also turned him into a bad poet. Set in season two before episode 19, Lyle and Anew.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Feel Again; Dream Again**

He was still awake, staring at the darkened ceiling, running his fingers absentmindedly through his girlfriend's hair, soft and silky under his fingers. He was awake, but she was asleep and he didn't mind. It had been a long day of mindless work which had kept both of them busy. He liked the stillness of the night, the peace and the quiet and just her being there, safe and real in his arms as he listened to her breathing and felt her heartbeat. She was safe and real and all his. He knew it was selfish, but he didn't much care, because something in his messed up life was finally going right. Something in his life was real, and it made him feel more real than he had in a long time. It made him actually feel.

He knew their lives were dangerous, not just because of the war, the day-to-day battles, not knowing when something might go wrong or fail or explode in his face, but because there was more to it all than met the eye. He knew there was something wrong, but he would not say it out loud, he wanted to keep her safe and real by his side and in his arms. He was guilty too, so he kept his mouth shut and kept her by his side because he knew he loved her. She, with her sweet smile and gentle words and kind eyes, had seen only him and he had fallen fast and hard and he hadn't expected to do so. He had enjoyed her company as just that, a work colleague, but more and more he found himself searching her out and before he knew it he was so far gone there was no coming back, and he laughed at himself for it.

He never wanted to let go of these quiet, peaceful nights as he entertained thoughts of after the war. He began to paint an image on the ceiling above him. A house, simple and functional, maybe just outside town and a dog that would chew up the rugs and run him ragged. Open spaces and green parks, trees and fresh air within easy walking distance.

"Lyle?"

He didn't know when she had woken up, but her voice was soft and gentle by his ear.

"Hmm?"

And there she was by his side, invading his dream, wearing some pretty little summer dress and a hat two sizes too big, a picnic basket and a smile, the sun sparkling in her eyes.

"Lyle," she repeated, giggling. "Go to sleep."

Her laugh was warm, like a summer's breeze, and he laughed as well. She was turning him into a bad poet too.

There was nothing for it, he decided as they lay there giggling and talking in hushed whispers, she was safe and warm and real and his and there was a park back home which was lacking a picnic and a house that lacked a daft dog and a hand in his that was lacking a ring. When this was all over he was going to have to ask the woman who had run off with his heart and made him feel again and dream again and act like a child again to marry him.

And she bloody well better say yes because he didn't know quite what else he'd do with himself otherwise.


	21. Different

_A/N._ Anew had been different, but damnit, he loved her. Set during season two, episode twenty. Actually written whilst waiting for said episode to originally air, so inaccuracies are inaccurate.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Different**

This, this was different, and not the good sort of different, more the sort of different that left him with a nasty, hollow feeling and a sudden urge to hit something, anything would do, this wall for example. …That hurt.

He'd known something was up, something was wrong, and it didn't take a genius to put two and two together and see that her blank outs and the enemy finding them were in direct correlation. He'd just neglected to mention this little fact to anyone else. Probably because he was worried what they would do, how they would react. Worried for her safety perhaps more than anything and maybe that was why he'd said, in front of everyone else on purpose, that he loved her. Maybe he'd thought it would help somehow, no clue how exactly, but maybe.

Mostly though it hadn't been a lie, and that was what made the whole thing just that little bit worse than it already was. She wasn't just another name in his literal little black book he'd kept in his desk drawer back home, she had been different from everyone else back home, quieter and sweeter, and different from everyone else on the ship who still saw his brother first and him second.

'Different' was a damn understatement now though, wasn't it?

And he was a damned idiot with no time for any of this crap, he'd take the blame later, it was his anyway, but right now, now there were other matters which needed attending to. This was his fault so he would be the one to at least try and set it straight. And if he could punch that smug bastard they'd captured along the way then all the better.

Walking purposefully towards the hanger his hand wasn't the only thing that hurt.

She had been different damn it, and he hadn't lied when he said he loved her.


	22. Broken Record

_A/N._ The record had always spun, stuck on repeat, but now it broke. Set during season 2, episode 21, Lyle. The shortest thing I've written so far, yet one of my personal favourites.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Broken Record**

The record spins and crackles, repeating the same words over and over. The same old tune, same old rhyme and reason, over and over and over. It never ends. The words sound empty and the tune is tinny, fragmented, and it's all falling apart. The record is old, played too many times, too many times for it to even make sense.

But still, he repeats the words, the mantra, again and again, wanting to believe, trying to still believe. Even if the castle walls have fallen and his world is gone and he's left standing amongst the rubble, he wants to still believe the old record, the empty words and meaningless tune.

But his hand is shaking too much and his vision is blurring again and the record is stuck, clicking over and over and over until…

…It breaks.

And he hates it. He wants to hate it. He wants…

But his words fall on an empty corridor; no one's listening as the record hits the floor and shatters.


	23. Fire and Shrapnel

_A/N._ Lyle understands it all now. Set during season two, episode twenty-four.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Fire and Shrapnel**

Fire and shrapnel, sparks and scraps of red and green metal were everywhere and his mind was reeling. Lyle hadn't expected to see that man here, then again maybe he should have, and he certainly hadn't expected to feel like he did now. Recognising a suit he had only seen once nearly half a year ago. Given how many other things had happened since then he was surprised he remembered it at all, that he knew it so well. He might have laughed if he'd had the time to think over what that meant.

He hadn't thought though, instead he had just acted, throwing himself into the reckless fight against the man who had been behind the bombing fourteen years ago and his brother's death ten years later. He was angry, more than he had known or cared to admit even to himself. He'd said he didn't care. He'd said he resented his brother. He'd said a lot of things. Only now he wasn't sure how many of them were all that true, not really, as the two machines continued to exchange blows. Lyle knew he wasn't exactly winning here, but he also knew he wouldn't back down, the names running through his head a mantra that kept him going regardless of the risks, because he did care. He loved his family, regardless of time and distance and idiocy. And it hurt. And he wanted to make this…this bastard, this pitiful excuse for a man pay and hurt as well.

Through the fire that burnt outside, the telltale sparkle of GN particles hanging in the air – most likely, no, definitely, Setsuna's doing the vaguely rational part of his mind informed him – he could see very little, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. He smiled, his usual laid back smile, but his eyes still stung, and he was sure he looked half demented. Part of him felt it too as he cursed the man to hell and questioned his own sanity. There probably wasn't any left, not after this, blasting the enemy machine to pieces was more rewarding than it had any right to be. But it made sense, picking up where Neil had left off now that he understood; now he knew how his brother must have felt. It was satisfying to pull the trigger on the man who had cost them their family. The resultant explosions were impressive, leaving Ali's machine a wreck of twisted and broken metal, and leaving Lyle the chance to breathe again.

The screen blinked, bringing up an image of the outside, and more importantly Ali, still alive and crawling away. The guy was a cockroach, he just would not die! The gun was in his hand and the cockpit of Cherudim opened before even Haro could comment, Lyle giving chase to the already wounded man. He was still acting before thinking, but that didn't matter. Not now.

The first shot was a warning, missing on purpose maybe, catching the shoulder. He should at least give the guy a chance right? Give him a chance to surrender, hand him other to the authorities and let them deal with the mass murdering creep. But still he had the gun pointed at the man's back, a chance for revenge for them all, for his parents and Amy. For the ghost that still seemed to haunt the edges of his comrade's eyes.

Lyle didn't believe in ghosts, but he hoped Ali had seen the one standing next to him, leather gloved hand wrapped around the trigger. His hand shook, Anew's voice, her gentle memory telling him of understanding, Neil's ghost, his memory shouldering all the revenge and hatred, Lyle's own thoughts mixed up yet clearer than they had been in nearly fourteen years. Lyle Dylandy was never meant to be on the battlefield, but as Ali turned, words of foolishness on his lips, it was who Lockon Stratos fired and the once-mercenary probably never knew what had hit him. A single bullet straight to the brain, a perfect shot. If Lockon Stratos was supposed to be the man who could snipe from across the stratosphere, then a few feet was nothing more than child's play. Lyle fired again twice, just for luck. Maybe just to make sure the man really was dead, or maybe just because he wanted to, just because he felt the guy deserved it.

He stared for a moment at the fallen man, floating limply in space, red on red, and Lyle felt nothing but empty as he lowered the gun. His thoughts were quiet, almost mechanical. It was done, book closed, and he wasn't too sure how he was supposed to feel now. But he was calm, and he didn't think he would have been. It just all made sense – Anew, Neil, Celestial Being… – all of it. A gap in his life had been filled in, and he felt older, or maybe just old enough. He and Anew had understood each other, he would never forget her calm, sweet grace, and now, thanks to her and everything which had happened since, he understood his brother. Not only understood but followed in the footsteps of whether he liked it or not. A few weeks ago he would have hated the idea, but now… Now, he wouldn't say he liked the idea, but it was strangely comforting as he walked away, back towards his Gundam where Haro would be waiting, anxious and worried as only the little orange robot could be.

There was still a battle going on, and he was going to fight it, for no one's sake but his own, for a better world than the twisted place which had thrown up such distorted creatures as Ali Al-Saachez, echoing his brother's words without even knowing it. They weren't so different really, maybe because they were twins, using the same skills and fighting the same fight, in the end maybe even for similar reasons, but he didn't think that was it. They were still different, always were and always would be, but things were clearer now as he walked with his head high across the field of fire and shrapnel. Lyle wasn't just Lockon Stratos, he was a Dylandy, and he was proud of that no matter what the history books of the future might say.


	24. Becoming Change

_A/N._ Setsuna had changed. Set during season two, episode twenty-four.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Becoming Change**

It was the voices, really just words echoing in the vacuum of space, which did it. It was not just voices though; it was the memories, reasons, and emotions that went with them, something about the particles distilling them down to their purest form. All the anger, bitterness and hatred, but also the love, determination and courage, he could see and hear and feel all of it. All these voices he knew, but hadn't truly known until now. He had fought, they all had, but now it was more than that. Through this confused battlefield he could see clearly. He could know and understand the writing on the wall, between the lines, and painted across the sky in broad, brilliant strokes.

He had changed, become something else. But he wasn't above them all as Ribbons claimed to be. He was not a high and mighty god perched on a golden throne playing with people like a spoilt child played with toys, not caring if they were broken in the process. He wasn't plotting and planning and backstabbing to get his way. He wasn't a warrior, and it was a long time since he had been a soldier. He just was. Sitting in the middle of this confused battlefield, people fighting who shouldn't be, or shouldn't have to be. People who had lost their way, taken a wrong turn somewhere down the track and wound up lost or hurt or both. People who were fighting for their own reasons, hopes and beliefs regardless of the fact they were so few against so many.

He could see and hear and feel their lives, out here in space, and he could feel them fading. Not quietly being extinguished, but going up in flames until all that would be left would be an imprint of the back of his eyes of the light they left behind in their wake. They were dying stars, out here in space.

But he had changed. He could see and hear and feel. Therefore he could change; he could take that last step and become something more. He wasn't child anymore, but he hadn't been an adult either. Everyone else had made their sacrifices, now he would make his and change their futures with his own.

It was a choice made without a moment's hesitation – change – and he felt the power in his veins, Innovator gold, burning hot and loud in his ears.

He could see and hear and feel.

And Soran was at peace, the gun falling from his cold, tired hands, wrapped in the warm lights, because Setsuna had changed, had not become Gundam or War, but had become more: Innovation.


	25. Bye, Bye, Beautiful

_A/N._ It's his choice . Set during season two, episode twenty-four. T i e r i a .

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Bye, Bye, Beautiful**

The battle looked like it should have been deafening, but it wasn't. Leaving Seravee behind and covering the short distance between where he stood and the entrance to Veda where Ribbons would be waiting, surely expecting his arrival and he allowed himself a moment's thought.

In some small way he was scared, but also determined, and that overrode everything else. Yet some small part of his mind wondered if this was how Lockon, or Christina, or Lichtendahl had felt five years ago – the certainty of ones own death looming, knowing it was coming yet unwilling to do anything to change it. It was a strange feeling indeed, almost surreal, and part of him felt even guilty for it as he checked his gun and stepped forward.

He wasn't going to die. He was an Innovade and therefore not human, not really, and therefore he couldn't die, which was why he could do this. But still, at heart he felt human, and knew what it was to be alive, to love and to cry. And maybe that was why his hand was shaking just a little, staring at the entrance.

This was his choice and no one else's. He was here of his own free will, and there was no time for second thoughts.

But still…

"Thank you, everyone, and," though no one could hear him, not out here in space, it had to be said, "Goodnight."


	26. Stargazing

_A/N._ Coffee, understanding and a deal. Post Season 2, Lyle and Feldt. Probably AU, but I don't care. Also, longest one-shot I've ever written.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Stargazing**

Somewhere above him a bell chimed as Lyle stepped out of the cold and into the warm, bustling café. The entire place was full of people chatting, laughing and carefree, somewhere in the background a radio was playing outdated music and a couple of harried looking waitresses dashed between tables with well versed ease. The place hadn't changed at all in the time he had been away and he waved to the now rather older looking woman behind the counter as he began to duck and weave around the furniture and people in search of Feldt.

He had been more than a little surprised when the quiet young woman had approached him two days before his planned trip to Earth and asked if she could accompany him. His initial reaction had been to deny her, he knew he wasn't exactly her number one favourite person in the world, but something about the awkward silence that followed her request had stopped him. She must have had a damn good reason for asking him of all people, so he had shrugged and replied that he didn't see why not.

So now here he was hoping she had been able to follow his rather vague directions and made it to the café where they – or more he – had decided to meet. She had refused to visit the graveyard with him when he told her that morning where he was going. She had politely declined, saying she had work to do first. What the work was she did not offer an explanation for and he didn't want to push his luck asking. So he had left her with directions and his phone number should she find herself lost.

As it was he still nearly walked straight past her, not used to seeing her in civilian clothes. It threw him; he was still unconsciously on the lookout for the brightly coloured Celestial Being uniform she always wore.

"You should have come," he said, sitting down opposite her and taking off his hat and shades, dropping them on the table next to him and calling over one of the waitresses so he could order a drink and possibly something to eat. He had thought that was the reason for her visit in the first place.

"I told you, I had work to do." Feldt replied, staring out the window. "I'll go later."

"Do you know the way?"

"I can read a map."

So, no, she didn't know the way and maybe his directions had been just that bad. Lyle shook his head before switching on an easy smile when the waitress appeared, enquiring as to what he would like. He didn't need to think twice, knowing the menu couldn't have changed that much since last he was here; he ordered the house coffee and most unhealthy cake they had to offer. Feldt gave him a look, but refrained from commenting. He resisted the childish temptation to stick his tongue out at her, there were some days when he needed the sugar, and today just happened to be one of them.

Instead he took advantage of the fact she was paying him any attention and settled on, "Want anything?"

"The same again, please," she said, smiling politely as the waitress nodded and removed the empty mug.

The action drew Lyle's attention to something he hadn't noticed before, mostly because it had been tucked neatly between the mug and Feldt's crossed arms, out of his line of sight and he added, "She'll take the cake too, and I'm paying. No arguments."

The latter comment was directed more at Feldt than the waitress and she knew it, "I can pay for myself."

"Yes, I know, but I'm feeling nice, and that doesn't happen often, so make the most of it."

"Two double chocolate fudge, and two house coffees," the waitress checked. Lyle raised an eyebrow, but Feldt nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. "Okay, I'll be right back with your order."

"Didn't know you drank coffee," Lyle said in a conversational tone.

"Didn't know you had a sweet tooth," Feldt replied in like.

Lyle shrugged, "Next best thing to nicotine."

It wasn't quite the truth, but it wasn't a lie either as his eyes were drawn back to the envelope which was now in plain sight. It was addressed in Feldt's small, neat handwriting to his brother. She had started to write 'Lockon', but changed her mind half way through, crossed it out, and written more carefully underneath 'Neil'. It looked strange but he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. He had seen the name not half an hour earlier on the family gravestone, etched into the cold grey rock, but seeing it written in blue biro on white paper somehow seemed worse.

Maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age, he snickered to himself.

Still, he drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the letter and wondering if he should say anything or just let it slide as he waited for the waitress to return. The trip thus far had gone better than he had expected given his past with the young tactical operator. She had still been courteous and polite since the incident in the hanger, but there was still always that distance that he had put in place. To her he was just another colleague, and as such he didn't want to push the boundaries too far and lose what small link did exist between them. She was sweet girl, and hardworking, and he respected that. It wasn't his place to question her. Some small part of his mind asked whose it was then, and was a little shocked to realise it was probably either Ian or Sumeragi, there was no one else she would be close enough to.

All in all he was glad when the waitress reappeared with a tray and bubbly smile to distract him from his thoughts. Once he might have flirted in a slightly outrageous fashion with the young woman, but not today, instead just smiling back and thanking her.

Turning back to the table he was surprised to find Feldt staring at him, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, amused by some private joke.

"What?" He asked bluntly, picking up a fork and stabbing it into the top of his cake before pulling the plate closer.

She shook her head, reaching for the coffee first, still with that hint of a smile, "Nothing."

He didn't believe her, but nor had he expected her to elaborate.

"I was just remembering something Anew said once."

"Something good I hope," he replied, throwing on a fake grin and trying to ignore the flicker of pain he felt at hearing Anew's name. One day he'd get better, but not today, instead he was back acting and systematically pulling apart the cake on his plate.

"She said you were kind."

Okay, that hurt more than it should have, especially considering it was a compliment. Lyle stabbed his fork once again into the chocolate cake, hoping it was as good as he remembered, "Only when it suits me."

Feldt paused, and he wished she would stop staring, "No, it's more often than you think."

He also wished she wasn't so damn observant sometimes, and that she wouldn't find this fact apparently so funny. He also knew it was the instinct to recoil and get away as fast as possible that was making him think that way.

He was glad the cake _was_ as good as he remembered. He needed it.

"What makes you say that?"

"You didn't say no to letting me come here for a start, you let me stay at your apartment, and have paid for every meal so far."

He didn't even realise he'd been doing it, let alone that she'd noticed. "I couldn't exactly throw you out on the street or let you starve." He waved his fork in the air and smirked. "For starters Tieria would have my hide for it regardless of his current state, and don't get me started on Sumeragi and Linda."

Laughter was something he rarely heard from the quiet young woman as she wrapped her hands around the warm mug, "See, you're doing it again."

This time he did stick his tongue out at her, as childish as it might have been, he really didn't care.

Then they were both laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all, and Lyle was grateful for it after the cold weather and quiet graveyard. Glad of the warmth offered by both the food and the company, forgetting for a moment why they were there and what they would be going back to, which was something, right now, he was more than happy to forget.

They spoke of meaningless matters, Feldt asking where the best shops were, and Lyle trying to drag up knowledge of the area long since buried under the vastly more important knowledge of where the best pubs were, knowledge which he was also more than willing to share yet she rolled her eyes at. He found she was fun to tease, and, when she wasn't being Feldt Grace: Celestial Being tactical operator and engineer, and was just being Feldt Grace, that she had an interesting sense of humour he was pretty certain she had learnt from Tieria. The change was astounding.

Yet throughout their mindless conversation he still picked up little things that made him sure she wasn't as relaxed as she seemed. The fact she was speaking so freely had been the first clue, she'd never volunteered such information before, even on the long trip down to earth. Secondly had been the way she kept twisting the mug in her hands, even after it was empty, and that sort of thing was usually a nervous habit. The drink itself was another, the coffee he could get, working long hours one often became reliant on caffeine, but he'd never seen her as the alcohol type, and the house coffee here certainly included that, it was one reason he was so fond of the place was that if you were old enough they would add whisky to the otherwise innocent looking mug of black coffee, and she hadn't blinked at it. All in all it was painting a very un-Feldt-like image superimposed over the still very-Feldt-like woman sitting opposite him and it was actually beginning to worry him.

He really was getting sentimental. Anew would have laughed at him, though good naturedly and with all the best intentions at heart.

He was just about to ask if everything was okay when she rose, picked up her bag and coat – the letter having disappeared when he wasn't looking – and dropped a few coins on the table, enough to cover both the drinks and cake. "Thank you," she said and then left, the bell above the door chiming on her way out, leaving Lyle momentarily confused and wondering what he had missed whilst arguing with himself.

Then his mind caught up with the times and promptly overtook them as he grabbed his hat and shades, threw down the money and hollered a quick 'keep the change' to the woman behind the counter, before taking off after the pink-haired young woman who was already halfway down the street. She walked too fast, always business, smart and crisp, but Lyle had caught her up before she reached the lights. He didn't need to ask where she was going, he knew.

She gave him another _look_, and he pointed down a different road to the one she was taking. "This way's faster unless you have car keys and a driver's license."

He turned and started walking, not looking back to see if Feldt would follow, he was pretty sure she would, knowing that he knew the area a lot better than she did, and he smiled slightly when he heard the sound of her boots on the pavement behind him.

"You don't have to come." She said, falling into step beside him, eyes on the road ahead.

Shrugging, Lyle replied lightly, "Don't have anything else to do, so I may as well play tour guide."

Again with the half truths, there were plenty of other things he could be doing, like paying off his bills and getting the direct debits redirected, not to mention having the Lancia seen to while he was here. It was a good little car but Neil had run the poor thing into the ground and it still ran a little strangely sometimes, but Lyle was loath to trade it in for something newer or better, no matter what anyone said about the old car, Lyle had grown to love it as much as his brother had.

They continued to walk in silence, Lyle watching the young woman out the corner of his eye. He'd put her wanting to come with him to Earth down to the fact she had wanted to visit his brother's grave, that had seemed normal enough given all he'd heard about the way he'd treated the rest of the crew and how much they had loved and respected him. However much it had annoyed Lyle the sheer mess Neil had left behind he had to give his brother some credit for everything he'd done. That much made sense and that was why Lyle hadn't complained about Feldt's presence. He'd half expected others to come as well when they heard that Feldt was going, but they hadn't, and Lyle was beginning to think he'd judged something in the whole situation wrong, that he'd missed something vastly important.

Unfortunately he did have an idea what it was, and it did not make him feel any better, in fact it made him feel worse. Hence the fact he was here now and not off toward the bank. He had started to put two and two together when he'd turned on the news and seen the Federation Assembly. He'd laughed when he saw Klaus and Shirin there. Shirin he knew had been involved in politics before, but Klaus in a suit had looked down right hilarious. Then the camera had spun round and he'd seen the people in the other benches and had stopped laughing and just stared in disbelief for at the screen, at the woman with lilac hair. Then he had realised what he was doing and had nearly thrown the remote through the screen in irritation at himself and the image of the woman who wasn't Anew. Instead he hit the off button, threw the remote aside and went in search of the wine he was sure he still had stashed in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards. Feldt had made him a coffee a couple of hours later. She had seen the news too and there was something in her eyes he hadn't wanted to admit was there: understanding.

He didn't want to admit it, as he passed through the gates to the graveyard again and slowed down, because of what it would mean, what the blue biro on white paper represented.

"Here," he said finally, stopping a ways back from the graves he had been staring at only a couple of hours before and let Feldt past.

Lyle watched as she pulled the white envelope from her bag, smoothing out probably non-existent creases, and knelt down to place it at the foot of the family gravestone. Feldt spoke quietly and more softly, gently than Lyle had ever heard. He was glad he couldn't quite tell what she was saying; he didn't think he'd want to know, and he was reminded of Tieria. Both were – or had been – right there within reach and real, and yet they were completely untouchable.

In his head he could hear Haro cheerfully exclaiming 'Feldt loves Lockon', the little orange robot childishly honest, not quite knowing perhaps what he was saying. He could also hear Anew's gentle laugh, again those words about understanding. Standing there just watching and listening he honestly could not deny that both were telling the truth and his heart went out to the quiet young woman, because he did understand.

"You're an idiot," he muttered, not quite sure if he was referring to himself, Neil or the young woman before him, probably all three.

"Did you say something?" Feldt asked, looking back over her shoulder at him. There were no tears in her eyes, but there was something else there, something all at once determined and raw.

"It's nothing," Lyle shook his head, she may have loved – and still love – his fool of a brother, but she was far from stuck in the past. She used it to her advantage, she turned sorrow into strength and he had to admire her for that. "You're a strong young woman."

"Lock-" there was a ghost of a smile as she paused and started again, "Neil once told me the same thing."

"Well, he was right about that," he offered a half-hearted smile in return. "And you can just call me Lyle if it makes it any easier."

He was a little surprised when she shook her head, "Lockon is your name as well."

He paused, taking in what her words meant. That she accepted him. "Thanks, Feldt."

"You're welcome," she replied, turning back to the grave to rearrange her letter so it sat a little neater before rising to her feet in one graceful movement.

He wondered what the hell his brother would have thought of the whole thing. What would he have thought of her now? There was no doubt the young woman, not a child anymore and maybe she never had been, was pretty and kind and strong and a good influence on those around her. He knew he couldn't answer that question though, and never would be able to, and it annoyed him, because Neil probably had no clue, sitting around on a cloud somewhere eating ice creams with Amy and laughing. Then he had to stifle a laugh of his own at the idea of Anew finding him in said afterlife and smacking the idiot upside the head. He could see her doing that as well. _Hit him from me too, love,_ he thought as he stepped forward to stand beside Feldt, glaring shrewdly at his brother's name. He was probably going crazy, but if his dear older brother was up there watching, well, he'd give him something to watch.

"Neil," he began, ignoring the way Feldt's gaze snapped up to look at him. "I've got a deal for you, and I want you to listen real carefully." The vaguely sane part of his mind asked what the hell he thought he was doing conversing with a piece of rock again, but the less sane part of his mind just shrugged and ran with it. It seemed like a great idea right now, and probably still would after a few drinks later, maybe not come morning when he was trying to get all his work done with a hangover from hell, but for right now it was great because even dead his brother still needed a kick to the head to see what was right in front of him, and it was in Lyle's job description as the younger brother to be able to deliver said kick to the head. "I want you to keep an eye out for Anew for me since I can't from here and she's important to me, okay?"

"Lyle…?" Feldt asked carefully.

But Lyle just continued on cheerfully, hoping he didn't actually sound as manic as he thought he did, "And, in return, I'll keep an eye on this lovely young lady for you. Do we have a deal? That is," he gave Feldt a trademark grin, reminiscent the times in his childhood when he and Neil used to play stupid games and tricks on unsuspecting neighbours and relatives in those times when they had been getting along just fine, "if you don't mind?"

He could never and would never be Neil, and he knew that she knew that, but now he figured he understood her a little better. They had some strange common ground to stand on through the losses they had incurred, and he didn't know if anyone else on the ship could or would be able to understand in the same way. If things had been different, had played out like some child's fairy story then maybe…

Feldt smiled, and slowly nodded, "I think I like that idea."

Only this wasn't fairy story, because if it was then they'd all be alive and living like royalty.

"Good," Lyle replied, his hand closing around the lighter in his pocket. Pulling the small silver object out, he ran his fingers one last time over the engraving before putting it down beside Feldt's letter, directing his words once again to the gravestone and his brother. "We have a deal then."

Smirking, Lyle offered Feldt his arm in an overly grandiose fashion, and she laughed but took it anyway as they walk back into city, Lyle already trying to convince the young woman of the best place to go and eat that evening. He knew a great pub down the road that did proper, home-cooked food.

And already, as he looked up at the sky, and the stars somewhere beyond it, he could have sworn he heard the sound of someone being hit and the incredulous 'ouch' that accompanied it.

Lyle figured he was going crazy, but at least he knew no one was alone anymore, and that was more than enough for him.


	27. Secret Mind

_A/N._ Lyle knows he's dreaming. Post Season two, unexpected follow on from Stargazing, Lyle and Neil (and Feldt). Posting today since FFXIII comes out tomorrow and I'll consequently probably forget to post this. Also, looking back, this one was probably rather unintentionally inspired by a Japanese doujinshika. Go figure.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Secret Mind**

He knew he had to be dreaming, he couldn't see any reason why he would be here otherwise. He also couldn't see any other reason why the jacket he was wearing would actually fit him having grown out of it over a decade earlier. He was also bare foot, and he pretty certain he usually remembered to put shoes on before going out anywhere, especially when everything looked so…wet and he wasn't actually getting wet. Yep, this was definitely a dream he decided, kicking at the dew covered grass and shielding his eyes against the sunlight he couldn't feel.

So why the hell was he here of all places?

The same reason he'd always been here, he answered, running past, jacket flying in the non-existent wind, race you.

You are so on, he replied running before he had even started speaking. If he was even speaking, he wasn't even sure it was necessary. Not now, not here and not anymore, and he doubted there was first dibs on sweets for the winner. He sniggered and nearly tripped over his own feet at the thought.

Clumsy.

Like you're one to talk.

At least I don't fall over what's not there.

His arm snaked out on instinct, taking out his other-self's legs from under him and sent them both tumbling back down the hill he didn't remember reaching the top of, like Jack and Jill only a little less sane and a little older, or younger, or something like that and he was sure the fall should have hurt, but it didn't, and all he could do was laugh in a heap back at the bottom of the hill again. He'd have to start over.

And somewhere he could hear a swing creaking – It's still broken, isn't it? – Yeah, no one ever bothered fixing it – and he didn't care anymore about racing, he could just lie, or lay, here in the not-sun of the not-park – Lazy – Look who's talking – just like this. He closed his eyes because sometimes lies were still better than the truth.

And he still didn't know why he was here, or why he had no shoes, or why he felt like laughing, or why he didn't care, or why anything really as he reached out, perhaps with less mischievous intent, perhaps not, perhaps just to see while he was blind, but he wasn't blind, neither of them were which was strange but he couldn't remember why.

Your dream, that's why.

That makes sense, well, probably.

More sense than you usually make.

He laughed again at that, calling his bluff and listening to the echoes and whispers, listening to everything in stereo. It was strange and old and familiar, almost nostalgic, but it was just a dream, anything he wanted, so maybe this should have been a nightmare, but he didn't know and didn't care and didn't want the laughter to stop but he did want that burning in the back of his eyes that couldn't see to go away now please. He was just dreaming, he was fine, he was okay – Liar – Look who's talking – he wanted to open his eyes but if he kept them closed and just listened he could still play make-believe like-

The voice was right by his ear this time, "Like when we were children, battling the monsters at the bottom of the garden."

"Amy never did make a very good damsel in distress." He answered out loud without thinking, reacting without thinking when he smirked and opened one eye, part of his mind knowing he should be surprised seeing his twin there, alive and well, but part of him couldn't remember why. He'd always been there really, hadn't he?

-Only if you know where to look.

-Looking in the wrong places-

-Doesn't matter, here now.

"I know, stupid, isn't it?"

"Never been anything but, not really, so," he offered a hand, "truce?"

There was almost a hint of fear in his brother's voice, buried somewhere under the confident bluster, but laid bare in the un-gloved hand which he took without a second thought, as much to his own surprise as his brother's.

"Sure, not so sure we were ever at war in the first place, so," it may have been true, or it may have been a lie, but it just didn't matter, reading between the lines which might have well not existed for how badly they were hidden, "there's nothing to forgive."

Some things just didn't change, never had and never could no matter how much either of them lied, cheated or stole; it all worked out the same in the end.

"Thanks for loan of the gloves, they were well made."

He snickered, "You should know, you bought them in the first place."

A hint of a wry but real smile he had seen in too many years and he found himself returning it with more ease than ever even if his eyes were burning more than ever, blurring even.

You're an idiot, he said.

So are you.

The tumbling words were more than a little broken though, more than a little lost under the crumbed wall that had stood between them, as he gave in and gave up and did something he should have done too many year ago, letting go of his brother's hand and smacking him upside the head – Flaming idiot – and enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. He didn't even know if he was laughing or crying anymore, only that he wasn't the only one and that he'd heard the word sorry more times than he ever wanted to and he didn't want to admit how much it hurt.

"Just shut up already," he voiced cracked and muffled by the white fur collar and tightness in his chest.

"Sorry, kiddo," he didn't sound much better off.

Yet he half-laughed, "I'm older than you now, you know."

"You're still always going to be _my_ little brother though."

"My dream, my rules, and I'm not a kid."

More laughter, then, "Sure thing, kid…"

He'd ducked and dodged the half-hearted slap, but they were both laughing because he didn't think tears suited his foolish older brother as he looked up at the sky, somewhere beyond anything he could see, beyond what he could recognise.

"Still, I'd best be going."

He paused, shading his eyes against the not-sun and trying to see, "Going where?"

A shrug, "Back, meant to be keeping an eye on that girl of yours aren't I? Pretty one she is, you did well for yourself, little brother," an almost sly smile, "She sends her love by the way, so does Ma, and she asks you don't do anything too foolish again."

"What?"

"Da, on the other hand, orders it, and," his smile softened as he kissed his brother's cheek, "that's from Amy."

He felt real, but this was just a dream – "Take care, Lyle" – yet he could even hear a heartbeat.

* * *

He'd fallen asleep on the couch again, he could tell by the terrible crick in his neck, and, he shrugged off the blanket he didn't remember getting out, that had been a weird dream. He put it down to being home and talking to gravestones the previous day, and he hoped he'd not got Feldt drunk last night because Sumeragi would kill him if he had, which reminded him, he only had one day left now to get everything in order as he stumbled towards the bathroom, muttering all the way.

But he couldn't shake the feeling of the dream, of the old grassy hill on the far side of the park where he and Neil had played as children or the familiar laughter, stupid dreams and stupid drink and, ouch, it was still a stupid idea to sleep on the damn couch and for that matter where exactly had Feldt crashed last-

He stopped at stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes red as if he had been crying, given that stupid dream it wasn't impossible, but what threw him was that his jacket was wet.

"Feldt!" He yelled, not quite caring if he woke her up.

Yet he needn't have worried as she appeared from the kitchen, an old book in her hands, "Yes?"

He wasn't quite sure how to phrase the question without sounding either crazy or possibly rude, so he went with, "It wasn't raining last night was it?"

She shook her head slowly, "No, clear skies, why?"

"No reason…" then added, "And I didn't go and do anything as daft as rolling down a hill?"

"What the…" the young woman wasn't sure if this was a normal reaction after Lyle had been drinking or if he'd just plain gone insane. "No, Lyle, you didn't. We went out, had dinner and probably a few too many drinks and you crashed on the couch before I could say a thing. I couldn't exactly move you so I got a blanket then went to bed myself. Does that answer your questions?"

He shook his head, laughing, and slumped to the floor much to Feldt's alarm as she dropped the book and crossed quickly to his side.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he grinned perhaps a little manically, tugging the jacket closer and listening to the voices in his mind, his dreams, "I'm fine now."

_Be seeing you someday,_ he added, _but not any day soon, Neil, so, you take care too_.

_Sure thing, _he laughed, _kiddo._


	28. Mother's Day

_A/N._ Two children prepare a surprise for their mother. Set way before season one, Neil and Lyle. A day late, but never mind. (I'm in the UK, Mother's Day was yesterday here.)

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Mother's Day**

There was a crash-

"Ouch!"

"Shhh!"

"No, you 'shhh', that hurt!"

-As the two seven year old boys tried to navigate the kitchen in the dark.

"Can't I turn the light on yet?" There was a definite note of annoyance in the younger twin's voice after having stubbed his toe on the corner of the cupboard.

"In a minute." In comparison the elder of the two was more excited, scrambling round the room making sure the doors and curtains were shut tight – the light might alert someone to the fact they were there. "Okay, now you can."

Lyle had to look away and blink a few times for his eyes to adjust to the change as he hit the switch and light flooded the kitchen. Neil, he decided, was far too awake for this time of the morning and almost regretted agreeing to his brother's harebrained scheme the night before, but only almost.

Neil was already at work, one step ahead, hunting through the cupboards that had so viciously attacked his brother, trying to make as little noise as possible as he pulled out pots and pans and other such culinary equipment, quickly piling them up on the counter.

"Can you grab the eggs from the fridge?" Neil asked, flashing his brother a wide grin as he grabbed a chair and dragged it over to the stove so he could reach everything. "And the milk an' butter too."

Stifling a yawn Lyle crossed the room and removed the requested items from the fridge, balancing them carefully as he brought them over, putting them on the side before going to get a second chair, wincing as it scrapped across the tiled floor.

"Shhh!"

"I'm tryin', I can't help it!" Lyle shot back, quietly but sharply, yet his frown was only half-hearted; his brother's excitement seemed to be infectious and he was beginning to feel a little more awake. "What now?"

Neil frowned for a moment, at the gathered ingredients before picking up the plastic mixing bowl and box of eggs, handing them to Lyle. "These in here, then we mix them up."

There was an audible yet unspoken 'I think' tacked on the end of the statement but Lyle figured that Neil probably knew better than him how all this worked and carefully copied his brother's actions, tapping the egg on the edge of the bowl and trying to break it apart.

Neil made it look easy, Lyle made a mess, and both of them spent the next five minutes picking bits of shell from the bowl. Mixing it, however, _was_ easy, and Lyle was in charge of that while Neil turned the stove on and took a guess at how much butter to melt in the bottom of the saucepan.

"That looks like a lot," Lyle said, handing over the bowl of beaten eggs and peering into the pan.

"Maybe," Neil didn't sound sure as he poured in the eggs and milk, "but I think this was what Grandma did last time."

"Okay, what next?"

"Don't think there's much 'sides addin' the salt…" He glanced round the room before finally deciding, "What about the toast?"

"Yep," Lyle nodded, knowing he could do that to perfection, jumping down from the chair and retrieved the bread and stealing the butter back from his brother, rearranging himself around the toaster, changing the setting to the one he thought best – not uncooked as Amy did but not burnt either as their father usually managed. It was simple and quick and soon he had the toast buttered and was just arranging it on the plate to take back across to Neil when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

He wasn't the only one either as Neil looked back across at him, the same idea written in his brother's eyes as his own: Ma's awake. "Tell her ta go back to bed."

"I were goin' to." Lyle replied, already making for the door, slipping out into the hallway and standing with his back to the door, baring the way for their mother.

"An' just what are you two doin' up this early?" she asked, crossing her arms and giving her young son her best suspicious look.

"Nothin'," was Lyle's immediate and stubborn answer, "so you can go back ta bed now."

"It doesn't sound like nothing."

"Well, it is!"

Trying to step around Lyle she replied, "Then you won't mind me lookin'."

"Ma, you can't!"

"Oh, an' why's that, Lyle?"

"'Cause," he looked around desperately, grabbing her arm and trying to drag her back towards the stairs, fixing her in turn with his best imitation of Amy's innocent, begging eyes, "it's meant ta be a surprise, an' you and Da don't let us know what our surprises are, so we can't let you in the kitchen, 'cause it's a surprise, right?"

His mother was laughing by the time he had finished, "Alright, alright, you win this time, just be care in there, an' call your Da if you need a hand with anythin', okay?" She raised her voice slightly, looking back at the closed kitchen door. "Okay, Neil?"

"Yes, Ma," both boys chorused, Lyle, out of sight, rolling his eyes as he gave their mother one last push in the direction of the stairs before disappearing back into the kitchen to help his brother finish up.

There wasn't much left to do, just pouring the orange juice since neither of them really thought they could quite remember exactly how the new coffee maker worked, and then putting it all on a tray to carry. The kitchen was a mess, but breakfast was a success: they hadn't burnt anything or set off the smoke detectors or set fire to it all. All in all they were pretty impressed with the result, shuffling out into the hallway, turning off the light on their way out, Neil carrying the tray and Lyle walking ahead to make sure the path was clear and deal with doors.

"Ma?" he asked, knocking on their parent's bedroom door.

"Yes, Lyle?"

Opening the door he and Neil crept inside, grinning, as they presented her with their handiwork.

"Happy Mother's day, Ma."


	29. Violets

_A/N._ Because sometimes violets are white. Post season 2, Lyle and Sumeragi.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Violets**

Just for a moment she had been hit again upon stepping into the canteen with a sense of déjà vu, different but similar to the time she had first met him. She blamed the lack of sleep and decided once again, as she had last time, to forgo the idea of going back to bed and instead took a seat opposite Lockon Stratos.

Lyle had shown them all time and again that he wasn't his brother, but right now they looked exactly the same to her eyes and she had to remind herself that this was indeed Lyle she was speaking to and not his deceased brother.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.

He gave a smile, albeit perhaps a half-hearted one, and shook his head, "Too much going on." Then, laughing, he added, "You sure you want me to pilot this thing?"

There was clearly two ways the question could be read, but she chose to ignore the one his eyes said he meant and replied, "Lasse needs the help, and whilst I'm sure Setsuna would love to he is not yet qualified."

"And I am?"

True, there wasn't a written certification or any other such documentation to decree one person over another fit to pilot the Ptolemaios, it was her ship, she had control and her word was final, was law.

"More so than anyone else who is currently aboard and not otherwise occupied with other duties." Or near enough deceased, her mind added for her, Tieria's face smirking at her from the distant corners of the empty room. "I think you proved that you have a knack for such things on the first day I met you."

"There's a slight difference between a small shuttle craft like that and this one. This one's a little bit bigger for starters."

"If you're trying to talk your way out of this then it is not going to work," her word was law after all, "I know your skill levels and what you are capable of, and you are capable of piloting the Ptolemaios, and anyway," she smiled in a manner she hoped was encouraging, "it's an order so you are in no position to refuse."

"Not quite"

She raised an eyebrow at his words, "Oh?"

"I can refuse; it just won't get me anywhere." He shrugged. "It's like arguing with Amy – you're doomed to failure before you even start."

It wasn't a name she immediately recognised, but the tone was one she did, familiar, gentle and nostalgic. Things she would not usually associate with Lyle. It did, however, give her an idea of who this 'Amy' may have been. She'd never been given a name before, and in some ways she hoped she was wrong, "Your sister?"

Lyle nodded, "Guessing Neil didn't mention her much."

"Couldn't really, the rules back then were stricter, and while certain members saw that they were repeatedly broken," she allowed herself another smile at Setsuna's previous incorrigible actions, "we did try to keep them. I think…" She trailed off and shook her head, "No, I know, we were all just trying to protect others."

"Yet it still backfired."

"Yes."

He didn't seem to have a reply for that - not yet anyway - and she didn't want to dwell on the topic which had cost her too many years already, the list of names echoing through her mind in a familiar yet unwanted litany at her simple, admittance.

Lyle was staring into a drink which she knew had to have been alcoholic, she'd had enough experience to know and there was just something a little too dejected about him for it to be anything else despite Setsuna's report of Lyle's previous drunken behaviour. She wondered which response was the act, or if they were both real.

Looking up he asked suddenly, "Does it ever stop hurting?"

She was a little taken aback, in part by the question which had come almost out of nowhere, but more so by the way in which he had said it: caught somewhere between frustration and despair. Surprise quickly gave way to sympathy as she met his gaze, reminded of a young child seeking reassurance. But still, she shook her head slowly and deliberately. Lying now would feel too much like cheating and that was something she would not, or maybe could not, do, "Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me."

He laughed, a rather hollow sound, and gestured to his drink, "No such luck I'm afraid, coping is not my strong point, I'd have thought that self evident."

"You could have fooled me."

He looked highly disbelieving and she had to admit it sounded pretty strange even to her own ears given all she knew of him and then of her own life and choices.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said eventually, grinning and taking another drink before offering it to her.

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I'm trying to break that particular habit."

"Good for you, and more for me," he paused, and then added, "though I'm guessing neither of them would approve."

Curiosity getting the better of her, she had to ask, "Who?"

"Anew and Neil," his grin faded, like an old photograph, "Sometimes I wonder how she put up with me."

"Because sometimes violets are white," she smiled at his confused expression and tried to explain. "The old childish romance rhyme, roses are red, violets are blue…"

"Sugar is sweet and so are you," he finished shaking his head, "That was not the version I knew as a kid."

"Never is, but I never received blue violets, only white ones."

"Oh," he had picked up faster than she expected the use of past tense, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it was a long time ago, thing is I only learnt four years ago what they meant."

"Which was?"

She shook he head, "You should ask someone who actually knows, who can explain it better than me, and as for what your brother would think of your drinking habits, I don't think he'd fault you one or two, just so long as you're sober by morning."

"True," Lyle regarded his mug with suspicion, as if trying to remember exactly how much of what he had put in it, "drink driving is, after all, illegal."

She wasn't sure why, but the statement struck her as funny, laughing out loud, much to Lyle's apparent amusement.

"You should get some sleep," he said a few minutes later once she had regained control.

"So should you really."

"I was a student; I'm used to all nighters."

"So was I."

He couldn't argue that, not without having his own argument turned back on him and being called out as a hypocrite, so he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, "Another fair point, I guess this means it's time to call it a night. Or morning to be more accurate."

She watched as he walked away, so completely different from his brother, so different from the conversation she had been reminded of when she walked into the room and felt like she had stepped back five years into the past, and she felt the need to speak up again, "Lyle?"

He paused and looked back over his shoulder at her, "Yeah?"

"I can't say it will never stop hurting, but it does get easier." She hesitated for a moment, remembering the white violets in the young girl's careful, clever hands. "Ask Feldt, when you have the chance, just don't push her for an answer."

He nodded and returned her smile, not necessarily happy, but accepting all the same, "I know, and thanks, I will."

Left alone in the canteen she knew her words had been true, she closed her eyes and recalled the quiet girl's words when she had asked her about the flowers she was tending to that day, turning and looking up at her with honesty.

_They mean take a chance, Miss Sumeragi._


	30. Line of Sight

_A/N._ Set around episode twenty two of season one, Neil.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Line of Sight**

He was aware of his surroundings before he heard the voices: a cold and narrow space and 'something' that just screamed hospital. He didn't like it but he wouldn't say anything, waiting and thinking and realising he was quite possibly lucky to be alive.

But something wasn't right, in fact 'something' felt very, very wrong.

So he listened to the voices of the doctor and tactical advisor, soft and low, and he knew he wasn't going to like whatever it was they were discussing.

Then he heard it and would have sworn were he not in shock: blinded in his right eye.

Without his sight he was useless; a marksman's life was in his eyes and hands without those he had nothing.

He could feel it now, the weight of the patch over the, at best, wrecked but probably more likely empty eye socket. It was a terrifying prospect, unable to do his job what use would he be? The idea of losing his ability to do the only thing he had left that he was good at was enough to make his blood run cold.

They could fix it, he knew that, and any other time he might just have agreed, but for three weeks…? They didn't have that sort of time left; war was on their goddamn doorsteps and wasn't stopping for a bit of minor – major – surgery and recuperation. No way, no how, which meant therefore no option.

So he listened and waited and remembered to breathe, to stay calm so he could tell them exactly that: he wasn't staying for treatment and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Of all the things that could have happened he'd got off lightly, he'd said with a shrug, he was still alive wasn't he? And it was easy to keep smiling and laughing, second nature no matter what else was going down because that was the way it had to be, no questions asked. Just smile, just keep smiling and keep going and no way in hell was he staying shut up in anything resembling a hospital. Not now.

Everyone was still edgy though, 'I'm sorry' written in every other gaze and every unspoken word, but he kept smiling, waved it off like it was nothing and he'd make them believe it by keeping everything normal.

They didn't need to know, as he untied the black eye patch and stared at his reflection in the mirror, finally left alone in his own room, just what a mess he'd made of things.

The man in the mirror wasn't smiling or laughing; one eye empty, badly scarred over and the other scared, knowing he couldn't do this, no matter what bluster or blarney he could come up with to tell the others.

"You've really done a number on yourself this time, mate," he told his reflection.

Then he turned and kicked the wall, hard, frustrated with himself for being so damned stupid.

"But there was no other bloody choice."

And he wouldn't have changed his actions, in fact he'd do it again if he had to, just to try and get it through Tieria's thick skull that he was human no matter what data may say otherwise.

The announcement cut through his thoughts – time for war – and he got back to his feet, fixed his grin and his eye patch back in place – didn't want to scare the hell out of anyone else – and checked his reflection again.

He didn't look himself, but he didn't feel it either, and shook his head, walking out to pick up Haro and go back to work.

If Haro noticed that his hands were as shaky as his too-bright grin then his little robot friend didn't say a word, but the way he looked at him… Yeah, Haro knew.

"Sorry, but I'm as good as dead anyway, mate, so may as well do what I can."


	31. Gap

_A/N._ Post season two, probably competely invalid once the movie comes out, Feldt and Lyle.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Gap**

It was always the same, every year he would take a trip to say hi and fill her in on the trivialities of the year, the useless nonsense and gossip. Sometimes, however, he wouldn't be on Earth on the right day and that was, not awkward, that wasn't the words she was looking for, just different. It was the same every year, and usually on those days she'd leave him be, but this year they were busy, this year he was needed and nowhere to be found.

So she had taken it upon herself to find him, or not find so much as fetch; she knew where he'd be, and where Haro would be too, walking quickly down the hallways, taking the most direct route.

"I know, I know, I'll be there shortly," he said even before she'd had a chance to speak.

She nodded, "Thanks."

He was already dressed for battle, they'd all known it was coming, and the hanger was close by, Haro cradled in his arms as he stared out the window and continued talking in a low voice. She couldn't make out what he was saying, but then she didn't want to. It wasn't her that he was speaking to, no; she could tell by his soft expression that he was talking to Anew.

Many had been surprised, some, like Ian, had even expressed concerned when he had refused to look twice at another woman after Anew had left them. Sure he still told bad jokes and dropped blatant compliments, but none of them were serious and while he would gladly meet someone for lunch there was never anything more, it was just for the company.

The last time she had stumbled across him on this day it had been by accident, a quiet day, but too far from Earth to make the trip. She'd apologised in a hurried fluster and turned to leave, but he'd shaken his head and said it was fine, no worries, and asked if she had any news to add.

Her confusion had made him laugh and he gestured to the stars, "I was telling Anew what's been happening this year, nice to keep everyone up to date, you know?"

"Oh," she had replied, not quite sure what to do, but it had seemed polite, if a little awkward, to stay, letting the door shut behind her as she walked to the window and looked out across space.

Lyle had just continued on as if she wasn't there, recounting the story of just what had happened to the last guy who had tried to hit on Ian's baby girl. She'd smiled, laughed, at the memory; the poor boy had been terrified of the kind old man for weeks after and Mileina herself had told her father off for being over protective.

From there the conversation had turned to Sumeragi, and then finally to herself, something else written in his sly grin as he asked how Setsuna was doing. She shook her head, there was little to tell, but Mileina had been trying to set them up on a date for weeks, and she'd finally given in the other day and let the younger girl have her way. It hadn't been bad per say, and Setsuna was nice, she'd known him for years after all and while he wasn't talkative they got along well enough. It made a lot of sense.

Then Lyle had asked, "Do you love him?"

The question had seemed to come completely out of the blue, but it had made sense at the time, supposedly talking also with Anew, the woman he had loved, and she had replied in all honesty, "I admire him; he's strong."

"But you don't love him," Lyle had said in a tone she didn't recognise, serious and soft as he added, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

And that short exchange was the reason why she hadn't held the same worries as the rest of the crew members, all it meant as she waited by the door for Lyle to say his farewells for the year was that he was more honest than her. He knew that no one could measure up to Anew and that no one should have to try, she knew too it was impossible for someone to live up to a memory but still she made them try and watched them fail.

"See you again soon," he finished, before throwing back over his shoulder, "Anything to add, Feldt?"

She shook her head, and then realised what he'd said as he walked away from the window, back to the door where she was waiting quietly and patiently despite the orders for haste and battle. His smile was still lazy as always, his words off hand and sometimes off colour, but she'd lost track of time. In the gaps between the years his hair had been shot through with grey and there were new creases round his eyes, somewhere between the ghosts and memories she'd missed the fact they'd grown old.


	32. Style

_A/N._ A silly little drabble I meant to write a while ago, was reminded of it when the new movie trailer surfaced. Feldt and Graham. Sometime post-season two and pre-movie.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Style**

It was sticky, horrible and none of the tricks she had learnt from Christina were working, so, upon hearing her dilemma, he had offered to help.

It had seemed a gallant offer at the time, however, she was not quite so sure anymore as he held up the mirror for her to see the result.

"Do you like it?" he asked, sounding a little worried.

She reached up, tugging at the short strands, "It's…different."

Feldt's hair had been long ten minutes previously, albeit with problematic gum stuck in it.

Graham's solution had been an easy one: Cut it all off.


	33. Nothing But Questions

_A/N._ To answer questions with questiosn does not beget answers. Season one whenever. Written on a self-imposed dare and a wish to play with parallels.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Nothing But Questions**

It wasn't unusual for her to work late – or early – sometimes forsaking sleep altogether, keeping only the company of repressed memories, data screens and alcohol. It was always obvious by the lights that were still on and the steady clack of keys when he'd pass by the door, and he'd stop and knock before letting himself in with or without invitation.

She'd pause in her work, look back over her shoulder and ask what was wrong, and he'd ask in reply as he crossed the room and leant against the desk if something had to be wrong for him to stop by, couldn't it just be that he enjoyed the pleasure of her company?

She'd laugh but also shake her head, long hair rippling in the almost-gravity, and say that it was never just that, so why was he here really?

He'd throw a pointed look at the time on the screen and then one at her and raise an eyebrow, asking if she really needs to ask such a redundant question.

She'd shrug, wave it his words off in a nonchalant fashion and ask if he wanted to have any tactical predictions for the days to come.

He'd ask if she'd be any good to anyone passed out on the bridge from sleep deprivation and alcohol poisoning.

He'd got her there and she knew it; she had no questions for that one. So she'd let him pry the drink from her hand and put it away, putting up only a token fight.

Then he'd lean back against the desk again and fix her with a look she could never quite place.

"You look tired," he'd say, and it's quieter, softer than the rest of the conversation. "You should get some sleep, Sumeragi."

Once or twice, in her more drunken moments, she'd almost let slip, asked if he knew her real name because her code name sounds strange in moments like those.

She'd never known if she'd ever asked it out loud but sometimes she thought he almost answered her.

That wouldn't do though, and instead all he'd say would be good night as he walked away, knowing that within minutes of his leaving she would be back to work again, another drink in hand.

* * *

It wasn't unusual for him to be there late – or early – often forsaking sleep altogether, keeping only the company of coffee, Haro and an old fashioned book. It was always obvious by the lights that were still on and the rustle of paper when she'd pass by the door, and she'd stop and stare before changing her plans and stepping inside regardless of whether or not her presence was wanted.

He'd pause in his reading, look up and across at her and ask if she should still be up, and she'd ask in reply as she took a seat opposite him at the canteen table whether he should be either and, changing the subject, was the book any good?

He'd laugh and slip a folded piece of paper between the pages and ask if he'd be reading it if it wasn't.

She'd give a wry grin and have to agree; after all, she can't argue with that logic, can she?

He'd ask why she was there, and she'd ask in reply, couldn't it just be that she enjoyed the pleasure of his company?

He'd ask if that was really likely and what was she after, really.

She'd hold up her hands, admit defeat and tilt her head just so as she asked if he'd be any good to anyone passed out on the field from sleep deprivation and caffeine poisoning.

He'd ask if she really thinks such a thing exists, because he's never heard of it. Still, he'd let her pry the drink from his hand, putting up only a token fight.

Then she'd lean back in her seat again and fix him with a look he could never quite place.

"You look tired," she'd say, and it's gentler, less blasé than the rest of the conversation. "You should get some sleep, Lockon."

Once or twice, in his more world weary moments, he'd almost let slip, asked if she'd like to stay and just talk a while because he so misses moments like these.

He'd never known if he'd ever asked it out loud but sometimes he thought she almost answered him.

That wouldn't do though, and instead all she'd say would good night as she walked away, knowing that within minutes of her leaving he would be back to reading again, another drink in hand.

* * *

It's a familiar dance that goes back and forth in the late hours of the night, or early hours of the morning, before every mission but in the end there are nothing but questions that no one can answer.


	34. Namesake

_A/N._ All names have meanings. Set sometime between the end of season two and the movie. Finally finished in a fit of impatience waiting for the aforementioned movie, likely to be complete nonsense.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Namesake**

Tieria had always been good at being quiet, perhaps unintentionally or perhaps not, sneaking up on people while they were working, but this was becoming a joke. Although, in all honesty, he may have intended it to be one, appearing without warning behind whomever it was he wished to speak with. Setsuna just continued on as if nothing had happened, knowing the other Meister was there. Then again, in some ways Setsuna had become a little stranger, a little more distant, since awakening as a true innovator. Lyle on the other hand was still Lyle; he had jumped and struck out on instinct, still too wound up after the last battle, much to Tieria's amusement and Lyle's embarrassment as he landed on the floor. Being a hologram had its benefits.

Feldt was just beginning to find it a little bothersome, all the interruptions while she was trying to get her job done. The number of times he had surprised her by speaking up to correct her last calculation or suggest a better, quicker, method was getting slightly ridiculous.

Today though he made his presence known first by standing where she could see him out the corner of her eye. It was a strange occurrence, so she paused and fixed him with an inquisitive stare, waiting to see what he had to say.

"I just wished to see how you were; it is late."

"I know, but this work will not complete itself," she replied honestly, returning her gaze to the designs that still weren't finished, were not likely to ever be finished without more funds, but she still felt the need to see them ready use. At least it kept her more than busy, or would were it not for the frequent daily interruptions from other members of the crew.

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

The concern was well meant but the answer was obviously no, so she felt little need to give an answer, instead changing the subject, gesturing to her screen, "Have you come up with a name yet? Ian is getting tired of not even having a design code."

Tieria smiled, or perhaps smirked would have been a better word for his expression, as he inquired innocently, "Why is that?"

"It makes work hard, not to mention data logs impossible, and I would suggest that unless you want Ian to name it for you…"

She let her words trail off, both of them knowing that it was Ian who had grown tired enough of waiting for Allelujah to answer his messages that he'd named the new machine and meant every word of the joke behind it. Needless to say the lightning fast speed at which the lettering appeared on her screen in the space which had only held question marks previously was impressive even for Tieria.

That had been something else which had taken a while to get used to; his now instant access to any and all files and programs and his consequent ability to alter them at will. Sometimes it had been a great help, but other times it simply left her wondering where he had picked up his sense of humour from.

"Raphael," she said, reading the name out loud, curious that there was no design code tacked onto the front. "Where did you come up with that one?"

Tieria shrugged, "Read it in a file somewhere."

Any further questioning was simultaneously interrupted and answered by the arrival of Lyle, waving a book and grinning, declaring that he'd 'got it'.

It took a long moment for Feldt to figure out what 'it' was because she was sure that it wasn't in reference to the book; he'd been hauling that around for weeks. The 'it' of course was in reference to the same subject she had just been discussing with Tieria, and the same subject she seemed to speak to him about on a near-daily basis: what to call the GN-010 instead of just GN-010.

In the long moment that it had taken Feldt to realise that however, Lyle was already leaning over to see the name Tieria had given his machine and was giving the holographic Meister a grin that was rather more pointed and purposeful, "Is that as in the archangel or the artist?"

"Given the nature of the names of all of my previous Gundams, which do you think?"

Lyle's grin grew wider at the challenge in Tieria's calm tone, but before they could launch another all out war of words across her work station Feldt firmly interrupted, "You have a name for the GN-010?"

The machine, like all the rest of the 'new' Gundams, was based on the ruins of the old ones, something which Ian had berated all the pilots for upon their return from battle, demanding to know which of them was going to pay for the repairs that would be necessary. The threat had never been followed through though and all the 'old' machines would – when they could get the funding – be new ones, consequently with new names.

That had been the task Sumeragi had given to all four Meisters in a last ditch attempt to stop them from getting in her way, an attempt which seemed to have failed quite spectacularly in Feldt's opinion given that it now took her twice as long to get anything done due to interruptions such as these.

"Yes," Lyle replied, flipping open the book and depositing it neatly across her keys, further hindering her work.

"Zabanya, Guardian of Hell," Tieria announced, decoding Lyle's scrawled translation in the margin. "I do hope you're not intending to use all of that for the name."

"Of course not, I just figured the second part gave an actual reason for the choice."

"Not just made it more presumptuous?"

"No more so that Raphael."

The sound of the impending argument and the door opening again was drowned out as Sumeragi Lee Noriega had decided that enough was enough. She had invited Feldt to join her on the bridge so that they could both get some work done in peace and quiet, yet it seemed as if it was a tall order, even at one o'clock in the morning.

"Boys, please, take it outside!"

Graham Aker raised an eyebrow at the silence which befell the room following the outburst, "I see I missed something again."

"Just the usual petty bickering," Sumeragi replied with an exaggerated sigh. "Did you need something or were you too just coming to join the nonsense?"

"Your technical operator's presence has been being requested for the past half an hour, but Ian couldn't seem to get any messages through and asks if Tieria would kindly stop jamming the lines before Ian has to take it upon himself to jam something else."

If it were possible for a hologram to look embarrassed Tieria managed it, and again Feldt could not fault his concern for her health and wellbeing and would be sure to make sure that Ian did not jam anything.

"Oh, and one more thing," the pilot flashed the most charming smile, "I will add that the Flag design should be entitled 'Brave' for no other reason than I am."

If Chris had been there she would have bashed their collective heads together, while Mileina would just have laughed. Feldt, however, was neither of them, and so maintained her composure as she retrieved the data stick with her latest work on and bid them all goodnight.

This was the other reason for all her late nights, this particular piece of work which needed doing, just her, Ian and the Haros painstakingly repairing the only other machine beside's Graham's now named Brave and Setsuna's functional Exia that they had the equipment for: the GN-002 Dynames. It had never really been intended to be used again, but they had kept it because they couldn't bring themselves to strip it down and use it for parts, and now it was just as well.

It was also the only machine that was to keep its original name, because that name, she knew, meant power.


	35. Sound And Vision

_A/N._ Written for the Summer Fic Exchange. Every day it's the same tired routine.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Sound And Vision**

It was always the same; every day she would step out into the hallway and he would be there, waiting like a faithful puppy.

"Good morning, Marie," he'd say, and it would almost be a question, almost, but not quite.

"Get lost," she'd reply, throwing back over her shoulder as she walks – or perhaps stalks – away a sharp: "And it's Soma; my name is Soma Peries, not Marie."

She'd hear the now unspoken 'but, Marie-!' hanging in the air and shake her head. He never took her advice, always choosing instead to follow her after a brief yet deliberate pause. She knew all this even without looking due to the familiar feel of his eyes on her back and the fact that it has happened every day since the break pillar incident. He just won't give up and she had to wonder why she even bothered trying; it was hopeless.

If Marie herself had any objections to Soma's actions and words then either Marie did not voice them or Soma could not hear them. Whatever the reason was the consequences remained the same.

Day in and day out she would snip and snap at someone she refused to allow a name even as she fought alongside him. She wasn't fighting for them, for their ideals or members; she was fighting for herself, for pay back. Logic dictated that her best chance was to remain where she was, then she would be sure to meet Andrei across the battlefield. That was her reason and the consequence was nothing but pity and an unfailing ability to always call her Marie regardless of the fact everyone else aboard the ship was more than willing to call her Soma.

* * *

Every night she would slam the door in his face as he wished her a good night, and he would sigh and wonder why she wouldn't listen. She was – is – Marie, his Marie, she had to be there, somewhere, he knew that, but she would not listen. Could not listen? He didn't know and had no way to find out, so he was left each night facing a slammed door, bidding it goodnight in lieu of her.

The short journey back to his room, the one that had been set up and handed over after Marie had banished him from his own, was always a long one, filled with doubts and what ifs and self-spun arguments.

He would ask the silent hallways what he had done wrong, what he could do to fix it, but the hallway had no voice, could give him no answer, and he wondered if the walls did have ears then why could they not have mouths as well?

What if he had tried harder to read between the lines? What if he had not let her go? What if he could have kept her safe from war forever?

He tried asking his other self, but if Hallelujah was there then either he had no answers or Allelujah could not hear them. The silence that followed was ugly because, as he unlocked the door to his empty room, there was one voice he could hear and that was one of a promise broken.

* * *

Somewhere, it was always the same, in a space that both was and was not, where others existed and waited, Marie watched. She watched and she saw and she did not reply; her heart and spirit too broken to try. She did not have the strength to fix them, either of them, as she turned away with tears in her eyes, unwilling to admit the truth she saw in her reflection.

Neither Soma nor Allelujah were to blame for this, because she was the one who had lost faith in them.


	36. The More You Know

_A/N. _Inspired by the all the snow we've got of late and a word that kept cropping up in the profile book, one of the few I could translate without having to look it up. Lyle's section included the word 'fashion' more than once.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**The More You Know**

The one thing Sumeragi had been looking forward to during this excursion to the surface was a touch of normality and a reason not to get up in the morning. It was something she was fairly sure Christina would have both approved and disapproved of, depending on how much they made of the escape from work after the trials and tribulations of the year having lost yet more friends. Had it really been seven years since she'd last seen the bubbly girl?

Still, the tactical forecaster shook her head and stared at the scene that greeted her on this particular snowy winter morning the day after arriving on Earth after a long journey. This wasn't quite the behaviour she had expected from the remainder of her crew.

They were acting like children. All of them, which, she supposed was stranger in some cases than others. However, the image of Feldt shrieking, arms pin-wheeling as she struggled to keep her balance on the ice skates in the middle of a frozen lake was not…normal in any sense of the word.

"Whatever is going on out here?" Sumeragi asked, finally finding her voice.

"Falling ovahhh-!" was the response from Mileina as she fell quite spectacularly backwards, only to be caught rather deftly by a laughing Lyle.

"You're almost there. Just, don't lean so far back," he said, making sure she was steady on her feet again before letting go and answering Sumeragi's question. "Free lessons, want one?"

"I'm fine, thank you." She watched for a moment as the Meister switched his attention to Feldt who was not doing quite as well as her friend. "I never knew you could skate."

"The lake used to freeze over pretty good back home, tell a kid not to do something and you can bet they'll go do it just for that reason." Lyle shrugged as he grabbed the girl's hands, "Okay?"

Feldt shook her head.

"Well, we'll go slow, left and then right, okay?"

It was an entertaining sight, and Sumeragi found herself watching for far longer than she'd intended. She'd intend just to come out, ask what the heck was going on and then go back inside where it was nice and warm. Instead she sat at the edge of the lake and watched as Lyle skated back and forth between his two impromptu students with far more ease than she'd expected until the tactical operators were quite worn out and in need of a break.

"Suit yourselves," he called after them, hands behind his back, casual as could be, yet something of a mischievous smile on his face.

"So, this was how you used to spend your holidays then?" Sumeragi said realising that the Meister wasn't planning to get off the ice anytime soon.

"Yeah, I beat everyone in the neighbourhood, it the one damn thing I was better at than Neil." He grinned over his shoulder at Feldt. "He spent most of the time on his arse, just like you."

The tactical forecaster could almost see the blush and slight irritation on the girl's face, and felt it best to avenge the girl's pride the only way she knew how: "Well, if you're so good, give us a proper demonstration instead of talking yourself up."

To be fair she hadn't expected him to agree, nor had she expected his coat to be thrown at her with a comment that the blasted thing would need dry cleaning should he – heaven's forbid – actually fall over. She also hadn't expected his boast to be true, and she was most certainly impressed with the display. Nowhere near as fancy as the professionals she'd seen at sport's events, but still, it wasn't amateur. Ian would never let Lyle live this down once the mechanic got wind of the Meister's hidden talent.

"Proof enough, Miss Sumeragi?" Lyle asked, stopping almost directly in front of her.

"Proof, yes," she agreed. "Proof that you are indeed a show off."

She punctuated the statement with the snowball that had thus far gone unnoticed in her hand, the shock at the sudden attack disturbing his balance and – THUNK – consequently causing him to fall on his arse.

"Never underestimated the power of a surprise attack," she smiled, right before getting caught on the back of the head by a well aimed snowball from a giggling Mileina.

* * *

Breakfast was late that day, and Ian thought it best not to ask when all four traipsed back into the supposed safe house covered in snow and arguing over who had won what and exactly why Sumeragi owed Lyle a dry cleaning bill. Winter did strange things to people, and he told them as much, only to be answered with a snowball from his daughter as she declared herself the ultimate winner, even if she did still suck at skating.


	37. Red Sun Rising

_A/N: _Written for the January round of lj_fictunes. Nameless soldier's perspective, sometime during season one. Something about this still doesn't fit right, but I can't figure out what it is a month later and have thus given up and am posting it here.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Red Sun Rising  
**

There was a red sun rising in the east that turned the desert sand red to match. It was meant to be some sign that the day ahead would not bode well, some cock-and-bull old wives tale. It would only bode ill for those on the other side, and that was all their own fault, not the fault of any foolish superstition. They'd just picked the wrong side to back; their luck had run out.

That's what he'd told us all on the dawn of battle, stood with the sun at his back, red hair a halo of fire around his worn face. There was something in the image that was real, real in a way the rest of the world was not. There was no threat of disillusionment because there was no illusion to be had. Here was a man who had seen it all and done it all and was still standing. And therefore so could we, if we just followed him wherever he would lead.

Stick with Saachez, they said, and _your_ luck would never run out. By proxy, neither would your money, and that, really, was all that should have mattered. Most guys though would forget that after a week or so, listening to the yarns he would spin of the life he'd led, no details of where he'd come from or where he was going, just tales of the moments and what it was to live it and be human.

War, he said, was human nature. It was natural selection; the strong live to grow stronger and the weak die off. Without battle and bloodshed the world would stagnate and grow dull, end up like Krugis, a wasteland.

It wasn't as if he took on every battle though, he was a smart one, and he knew when retreat. Fighting a battle when it was impossible to win – like against those new machines – was just suicide, and that was just another form of weakness. That was why Ali al-Saachez had lasted so long in this world; because he was a survivor.

That was what he taught us: how to survive and how to make the most of it, because one day you too will die. Until that day, however, I'll face every red rising sun and know what it is to live that dream as we march once more into war.

Live today, he said with a laugh, because you might not see tomorrow.


	38. Daidalos

_A/N._ Doctor Moreno, set before the end of season one. For Satiah for putting the idea to write this back in my head so much that it wouldn't let go. As usual, not quite what I was orginially going for, but nevertheless...

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Daidalos**

He knew he wasn't allowed to smoke onboard the ship, but that didn't stop him from staring at the cigarette in his hand, debating if it was worth being yelled at by Tieria or Miss Sumeragi for, or worse, the sad look he would get from little Feldt who had been trying to convince him to quit. Only, she wasn't so little anymore and the other two were otherwise occupied with more fears and worries than he could count. He didn't want to know what damage the stress was causing their already over-worked bodies; he had warned them of the dangers, told them to get some rest, but it seemed like no one listened to the doctor's orders these days. So maybe no one would notice or care if he indulged his vices.

"You'll stain the walls if you light that in here, not to mention all the alarms you'll set off."

The doctor sighed, flicking the unlit cigarette away, watching it twirl across the room before finally looking over the top of his sunglasses at his long-time friend and colleague, "I don't even have a lighter anymore, you borrowed my last one three years ago and I haven't seen it since."

Ian Vashti laughed, the sound filling the room in a way that only Ian could manage. Letting the doors close behind him and taking a seat opposite his friend the mechanic made himself comfortable, at least as comfortable as was possible on one of the plastic chairs that had been supplied, "Someone has to keep an eye out for you."

Somewhere underneath the casual words was an accusation of hypocrisy – how could he tell everyone else to rest up when he wasn't?

It was an easy argument to counter though, "Someone has to keep an eye on the kid." He nodded towards the bed where the 'kid' was currently out like a light thanks to the drugs Moreno had pumped into his system; the only way to get him to shut up and do as he was told. "Someone has to make sure he doesn't do anything…stupid when he wakes up."

Ian followed his friend's gaze, "You think he would?"

J.B. Moreno only smiled in reply; patient-doctor confidentiality and all that.

In his mind such simple little things still remained at the core of his profession, regardless of Veda or world domination or even friendship. That and the Hippocratic Oath, as out-dated as it was now, were the rules he lived by and that was all, and maybe that was why he'd taken up smoking all those years ago. Sometimes it was harder than he could have ever imagined keeping to ideals that were so straightforward on paper, especially when they went against direct orders from a superior.

He could still hear the field marshal ordering the deaths of people he'd considered patients – human beings who happened to be fighting for the other side – the gunfire execution he'd been forced to bear witness to, and his own words that had followed the event. He'd faced a choice that day between his morals and his orders, and that night, lying awake in bed, he knew he'd chosen wrong and set about making it right, walking out on his job and expecting a bullet to the head for his troubles . He'd picked the cigarettes from a dead man's pocket and never put them down again.

"You're right," Ian agreed, spreading his arms wide and leaning back in the chair, "but then, everyone on this ship's barking, so it shouldn't come as a surprise."

Moreno smiled, "To you or to me?"

"Me, I was just thinking aloud."

"You always did talk too much."

"How do you think I always got into so much trouble at MFS? It's still kind of surprising old Herfi didn't kill me."

"Telicyra, you mean?" The doctor began digging through the pile of junk for the bottle and glasses he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, recalling his partner, the work they'd done and the research notes he'd walked away with when Ruido had come knocking. Tieria actually reminded him a lot of his previous colleague; both were far too serious and smartly dressed for their own good. "He was too absorbed in his work to even remember five minutes after you'd left the room."

"You could have told me that at the time, do you have any idea how many hours I spent hiding in the hanger after getting on his wrong side?"

Successfully retrieving the bottle Moreno poured the brandy into the two slightly chipped old glasses, handing one to his friend, "You deserved it."

Ian laughed, "The hours of living in fear for my life or this drink?"

"Both."

They drank together in silence for a while, the doctor watching his patient through the distortions of the liquid in his glass, the brandy burning just the way it should on the way down, the last of that he had brought from home. If he could even call the place home anymore; he hadn't been back in over twenty years. If there was even a place left to call home. War had stolen a lot of things from a lot of people over the years, and his homeland was no different. Perhaps that was why he stayed here and watched instead of getting the shut eye he prescribed for everyone else: he would see no other homes destroyed when it was within his power to stop it.

The doctor's eyes never left the kid he'd first met five years earlier, the one with so much stubborn determination Moreno had feared he would go and do something stupid, and now he had, stupid and kind and cruel, and it was making him think, "What do you think, Ian?"

The mechanic lowered his glass, "About what?"

"Our chances."

Ian's smile slipped, now a touch less jovial and bit more aged as he replied, "No better than Chall's but no worse than Ruido's."

Moreno reached for the brandy to refill his glass at the sobering thought, a thought that had already been whispering in his own ear, and he hadn't needed Veda or Sumeragi to forecast it for him.

"You'd best go get some rest then, my friend," he said. "You'll need it for the morning. They'll need you."

Ian's empty glass was placed on the desk, "Thanks for the drink, I'll see you later, don't stay up too late."

They both knew though that the doctor would not rest, maintaining his silent vigil throughout the night in the company of his brandy, unlit cigarettes and unconscious patient, ignoring for the most part the memories of the past and the comrades who had died because he had been too late to save them.

He was less than surprised the next day when the sniper awoke, refusing treatment, seeing in the kid's good eye the same stubborn determination he had five ago when the boy had walked into his office with lies on tongue and fire in his blood. He signed the clearance papers with the same sense of trepidation now as he had then, knowing that the kid would find a way to fight regardless of his orders. He was just a doctor, not a commanding officer; his words meant little in the past and nothing now.

"Thanks, J.B."

The doctor could tell that the sniper meant those words as he walked out of the office, but all Moreno saw was the nineteen year old boy from five years ago and all the other young boys he'd seen on Earth's battlefields with the military and with the Médecins Sans Frontières.

He saw his ideals and orders and choices and heard Ian laughing about the latest developments in safety within the suits they'd built.

He reached for the now empty bottle of brandy as he realised he could only ever offer wax wings to boys who would always fly too close to the sun, and, alone in his office, Joyce Moreno laughed before he died.


End file.
